


somewhere, on the other side of this wide night

by hihoplastic



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F, Post-Season/Series 02, TW: Implied Emotional Abuse, TW: Panic Attacks, TW: implied suicide, tw: PTSD, tw: dissociative episodes, tw: implied physical abuse, tw: night terrors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-07-06 23:17:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15896154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: It’s already too much. Being in Pippa’s presence, feeling her soft gaze on her back wherever she goes. It isn’t that she doesn’t adore Pippa’s company, but that she adores it too much. That every hour spent with her is an hour her walls come down, just a little. She thinks, by the end of the week, there may be nothing left, and it terrifies her. Even if they were alone it would terrify her, but with all the students around, she cannot afford any kind of vulnerability. Cannot, even for a moment, want anything more than the week to be over.or, On a weeklong camping trip, Hecate deals with the events of the last year, her feelings for Pippa, and old wounds that haven't quite healed.





	1. in my camouflage room / you sprawled in my gaze

**Author's Note:**

> \- **Trigger warnings:** ptsd, implied emotional abuse, implied physical abuse, night terrors, dissociative episodes, panic attacks, implied suicide, and everything that happened to hecate in s2.  
>  \- Titles from Carol Ann Duffy  
> \- Enormous gratitude to @fraks, who has been my relentless cheerleader and support system; @cassiopeiasara, who listened to me whine about this _a lot_ , and @atheneglaukopis for the beta!

She knows she’s dreaming.

The laughter is too thin, echoing unnaturally through the deserted hallways. There are footsteps, a song, off-key humming and flowers strewn on the floor. She feels compelled to pick them up, one by one, to carry them. She doesn’t know what she’s looking for, but she remembers this dream. Remembers what comes next.

It doesn’t prepare her, it never does. She knows that when she turns the corner, when she enters her potions lab, the room will be covered in ice. She knows she’ll find her girls, all her girls, frozen, immobile. Knows Ada will be waiting for her, disappointment etched in her features.

“Why didn’t you save them?”

Her answer is always the same. It’s all she can say, over and over: “I tried.”

Ada shakes her head, but when she speaks, it isn’t her voice.

“Foolish girl,” she says, doesn’t say; would never say, and Hecate knows but she can’t bring herself to believe it, not in the dream. Not with Ada’s eyes staring at her, Broomhead’s voice from her lips. “You failed them all.”

Hecate shakes her head, tries to protest, but something moves her forward, without her permission. Moves her to the center of the room, where it’s coldest. The ice pricks at her skin and she can feel her magic fading, dying inside her.

“Please, don’t,” she says, but Ada—Miss Broomhead—whoever she is, doesn’t listen.

“You don’t deserve magic,” she says, coming closer, closer, closer.

When Hecate opens her mouth to speak, she sings, some children’s song, though when she wakes, she never quite remembers the words.

“You don’t deserve to be here at all.”

“Ada—“ she tries, but the ice sets in, and she freezes. Her bones freeze, her veins, and all she can do is stare out from behind the frost as Mildred kneels in front of the stone. She tries to scream, to reach out, to stop her, but she can’t move, can’t speak, can’t do anything but watch as Mildred gives her magic away. As the stone glows orange. As she stands, and stares at Hecate with such sadness, such anger.

“It should have been you,” she says.

 _Let me fix it_ , she thinks desperately. _Please, let me fix it. Let me out._

The ice thaws, but she still can’t move. The girls stare at her, laugh at her, sing at her.

“We liked you better the other way,” Enid says. “Why can’t you be someone else?”

Ada speaks, and it’s her own voice this time, resigned. “It’s no use, girls. She’ll never change.” Ada guides the girls to the door. “She’s set in her ways.”

 _I can change_ , she thinks, tries to say, to scream. _I can be better. I’ll be better._

Ada looks back at her over her shoulder, and shakes her head. “It’s too late, dear.”

“Please don’t leave,” she manages, finally, words brittle and hoarse. “Don’t leave me here.”

Ada looks almost sympathetic as she disappears, along with her girls, and Hecate tries to follow, to transfer after them, to reach the door.

There’s a hand on her shoulder, claw-like.

Magic compels her to turn. Magic makes her stand straighter, taller. Magic makes her bow her head.

Magic betrays her.

“Good girl,” Miss Broomhead says.

Hecate shudders herself awake.

—

It’s still early when she decides she won’t be getting any more sleep, not yet four o’clock when she hauls herself out of bed. The castle is silent, empty. The girls are gone for the summer, and most of the staff have left, assured, for once, that the castle will be fine for the break.

Hecate isn’t so sure, but she has to admit that at least the spring term was relatively uneventful. Of course, they had their fair share of disasters, often Mildred Hubble-shaped, but as far as the safety and security of the school goes, nothing collapsed, no one tried to take over, nothing froze, and Hecate considers that good enough.

She’d like to keep it that way, to use the summer months to reorient herself after the disastrous year, to settle a bit, to possibly even relax.

But she knows that won’t be possible.

Not since Ada and Pippa came up with the brilliant idea to take some of the girls and Pippa’s students on a week-long camping trip over the break. Ada assured Hecate she wouldn’t need to attend, and as anxious as it made her to leave her best friend and… whatever she is to Pippa, alone together, another week with the girls in a small, secluded woodland area had sounded even worse.

But she’d helped Ada make arrangements, gathered consent forms and made lists of everything they’d need and reserved the cabin and developed an itinerary.

Ada had crossed off most of the academic work Hecate had created, insisting that this be a relaxing trip for everyone. No assignments, no marking. Just a week to make new friends, commune with nature, explore their magic, and have fun.

Hecate had scowled at that, but it wasn’t her trip, or her time being wasted, so she amended the plan as requested and thought that would be the end of it. That she’d have the castle to herself for a week. That no one would disturb her.

Finally.

Her almost-excitement over having time to decompress lasted all of four days, until Ada sheepishly admitted that she’d over-scheduled herself. That she was due at a conference in Germany that same week, and could Hecate take her place on the trip.

“Don’t you think Miss Drill would be better suited?”

Ada had taken a sip of tea to cover her grimace. “I did ask her,” she said, “Only because I assumed you’d be uninterested. She’s on holiday in Australia and won’t be back until term begins.”

Hecate had tried not to grit her teeth. “Is there no one else?”

Ada shook her head. “I’m afraid not.” She forced a too-wide smile. “I’m certain you’ll have a lovely time with Miss Pentangle.”

Hecate ignored the odd tone to her voice, and instead made preparations to join Pippa on the trip, despite her better judgement.

She’s nervous, though she’d never admit it. Of spending time with the girls and Pippa’s students outside the classroom. Of spending so much time with Pippa.

Hecate knows she's been distant the last term. Knows that despite their weekly calls on Saturday nights, she hasn't been fully present. Pippa doesn't ask, doesn't press, but Hecate can see the way her shoulder slump sometimes, or the way her smile is too wide. Sees the disappointment when Hecate declines a visit or avoids a question. 

It isn't that she doesn't want to be closer—doesn't want long talks, about anything and everything, the way they used to. She doesn't want to avoid Pippa's concerned stare or her careful broaching. But it's been all she can handle lately. Light topics, nothing that presses too close to home. 

 

They don’t take about the past, about why Hecate left. They don’t talk about the ice that nearly froze the school, except for once, when Pippa called that same night, anxious and frightened and relieved to hear everyone was unharmed.

Hecate still hasn’t told her about the nightmares. Hasn’t told her everything that happened before Halloween. Doesn’t know if she will tell her, if she can. If she even knows how to talk about it.

She’s done her best to set it aside. To keep it at bay. To not let it affect her teaching. To treat the girls the same as she did before. To keep up the illusion that what they did caused no harm.

But sometimes, during the term, she’d glance over at them in the middle of class, see them bent over their cauldrons and wondered what would be next. What punishment they’d devise that she’d deserve.

She knows she’s too harsh with them sometimes. Knows what she said to Sybil was unconscionable, still, even months later, hears the echo of it in her sleep. Knows that when she’s frustrated, when she’s angry, bits of herself slip away, replaced by the firm hand and tongue that taught her.

She wonders what they think of her now.

Pushing the thoughts aside, Hecate takes a sip of her tea and stares out the window at the slowly rising sun. She has a few hours yet before Pippa and all the students will arrive, before they set off into the wild.

She spends the time getting ready, going over the final touches to the curriculum she’s created for the week. She brews a few batches of Wide Awake potion, just in case, and slips them into the bottom of her bag. She ensures she has everything she needs for emergencies: a small cauldron, healing ingredients, and a mirror.

She checks her satchel and then checks it again, satisfied.

When she glances at her watch, it’s barely gone seven.

It makes her anxious, the waiting. Makes her restless, and by the time Pippa and the students begin arriving, she’s tetchy and irritable, her mood made worse by the presence of young wizards in Pippa’s group.

She’d tried to advocate for a witches only trip, but Pippa had insisted upon being “inclusionary,” and as a result there are two young boys: Matthew and Archie. There’s Nawal and Dylan and Drusilla in her group, and Pippa makes proud introductions for each of them.

Hecate lets her girls introduce themselves, grimacing when Mildred steps forward and gives a sloppy bow. She’s followed by Maud and Enid—Hecate tries not to be annoyed by their presence—as well as Ethel and Felicity.  

It’s a manageable group, but Hecate is already on guard, in part because of Mildred, part because she doesn’t know the other students, doesn’t trust them. She trusts Pippa, and tries to tell herself everything will be fine.

They manage to organize fairly efficiently, though Hecate isn’t sure if that’s Pippa’s doing or her own silent glowering in the background, and it takes less than half an hour for every student to be sky-borne.

\--

Hecate doesn’t particularly like traveling in large groups, especially with children. It makes her anxious, and she finds herself constantly looking over her shoulder, constantly moving around the circle to make sure everyone’s in line, everyone’s safe, no one’s falling off their broom.

It doesn’t seem to bother Pippa, who spends most of the time with a smile on her face, even when she has to call back to Dylan to mind their manners or remind Nawal to keep her balance.

It’s a lovely day for a flight, but Hecate hardly enjoys it. Her stomach feels heavy, and there’s a stone lodged in her chest that won’t shake loose.  

Even when their landing site comes into view, it only serves to make Hecate stiffen further, knowing once they’re down is when it really begins.

The cabin sits at the edge of a clearing, surrounded by dense forest on all sides. The students’ chatter grows the closer they get, excited shouts and ‘whooping’ that Hecate finds grating. Pippa has fallen to the back of the group to stay with the stragglers, mainly Matthew, and Mildred, Maud, and Enid who stay with him.

Hecate guides them single file in a circle around the clearing before descending, hovering just above the trees in the center of the clearing to watch as they make - for the most part - safe landings.  

Mildred, of course, stumbles and crashes into Maud, both of them landing in the dirt, and Hecate settles neatly next to them, eyes narrowed.

Mildred flushes, clamoring to her feet before helping Maud. “Sorry,” she says sheepishly.

Hecate merely glares, annoyed and unimpressed, before turning to the group and barking orders for them to line up their brooms and wait outside the cabin.

She lets Pippa handle the ‘tour,’ such as it is. The cabin is fairly small for the number of people, and there’s a flurry of excitement as the students pair off, racing off to find the best room.

There are three floors, each one containing several small bedrooms with two tiny beds, a mirror, and little else. The students seem delighted to be ‘roughing it’ for a week, and Hecate watches as they scramble about, arms folded across her chest.

Pippa disappears into the kitchen to unload the bigger-on-the-inside basket she’d packed with everything they’ll need for the week, and Hecate watches as the girls sort out the last few rooms. It goes relatively smoothly, to Hecate’s surprise—no one gets left out, no one shunned. Enid slings an arm over Nawal’s shoulder and says they can be bunkmates, leaving Mildred and Maud to set up in the second to the last room on the ground floor.

Hecate frowns, casting her eyes around for another space, and her heart starts to pound as she realizes there’s only one room left.

One room, with one larger bed, not two, which she supposes is why the students left it.

Pursing her lips, she informs Pippa of the development. She doesn’t know what she expects, but it isn’t for Pippa to grin and tap her on the nose in the privacy of the kitchen.

“Guess we’ll just have to share then, won’t we, Hiccup?” she says, then slips past Hecate out of the room, clapping her hands to gather all the students in the main room.

Hecate blinks, and doesn’t move for a long moment, staring at the place where Pippa used to be, feeling her cheeks flush and her nose tingle.

 _Get yourself under control,_  she says to herself, shaking her head and taking a deep breath.

It’s only a week.

One week. In the woods. With Pippa. In a single bed.

Hecate resists the urge to brace her hands against the sink.

None of this, she decides then, is going to go well at all.

\--

The students can’t settle. Too excited from the flight, meeting new friends and setting up their rooms. Hecate can’t entirely blame them, but the noise is grating and the laughter too loud for her impending headache. She doesn’t quite have it in her to snap at them, but a few well timed glowers seem to dull the roar, and she sighs with relief by the time they all gather in the clearing around the firepit for dinner.  

Pippa has an assignment sheet of chores - cooking, straightening the cabin, cleaning up after meals - with the students assigned in rotating shifts, and Hecate is pleasantly surprised that the first duty - cooking dinner for everyone in the small but functional kitchen - goes as well as it does. No fires, no accidents. She figures it’s only a matter of time, but at least their first day is turning out calm and, if not quiet, at least manageable.

Still, Hecate wrinkles her nose at the lopsided burger and semi-burnt chips Pippa offers her on a paper plate.

“You can’t live on granola bars all week, Hecate,” she says, but her voice is fond and her smile warm.

Hecate eyes the plate with disdain. “I’m sure I’ll manage.”

Pippa sighs - “Suit yourself.” - setting the plate aside to address her own. Hecate watches, eyebrow arched, as she takes a bite, and tries not to grimace.

“It’s good,” she says, covering her mouth with her hand.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Hecate says mildly; but a few minutes later, when the cooks ask how she likes it, Pippa smiles brilliantly, all thumbs up and praises, and Hecate marvels a bit at how at ease she is with everyone, even the students she barely knows.

It tugs something in her chest, watching Pippa with her girls. Something heavy and wistful and she does her best to put it out of her mind. Pippa may be a gift with children, but Hecate isn’t. Even if she wanted children, which she’s fairly certain she doesn’t, she would be a terrible parent. Too strict and abrasive and aloof. Not a nurturing bone in her body, an angry parent told her once.

Pippa is different. Pippa radiates a kind of soft, maternal energy.

Another reason they’d be ill-suited, she thinks. Doesn’t even know if Pippa wants children, but if she did—

Hecate grinds her thoughts to a halt and turns away, resuming her perusal of the edge of the clearing.

She watches from a safe distance as Pippa guides the students through the cleanup process, and Hecate keeps an eye on those gathered in the clearing while Pippa helps the others take care of the kitchen, doing her best to ignore the clattering and laughter emanating from the cabin.

She’s relieved when everyone emerges looking unscathed, if a little wet—Pippa has soap suds in her hair, the sleeves of her button down shirt rolled up, and it’s all so terribly domestic Hecate has to look away.

Instead, she directs her focus into informing the students about their assignment for the week, for which she receives a collective groan. Ada hadn’t planned anything, she knows, but Hecate hadn’t seen the point in that, and if she’s going to put up with this preposterous exercise, she insists the students actually learn _something_.

Pippa had rolled her eyes but agreed easily, and they compromised on one week-long research project: student’s choice. They can pick any flora, fauna, or wildlife to study while they’re in the woods.

“There are books available for you in the cabin, and you’ll be given ample time to conduct both academic and field research,” she says, looking out at the sea of morose faces, save Ethel, who looks pleased, and Maud, who looks at least a little interested.  “Therefore,” she continues, “Your end of the week projects should be _perfect_.”

Across the log circle around the campfire, she sees Mildred look dismayed, as usual, and a few of Pippa’s students roll their eyes.

Ethel raises her hand. “Will we receive marks on these projects, Miss Hardbroom?”

Hecate says “Yes” at the same time Pippa says “No.”

Pippa flushes faintly. “I don’t think these projects should go toward their overall average,” Pippa says quietly, “It won’t be fair to the others who weren’t able to attend.”

Hecate wants to argue that it’s their loss for refusing to participate in a school-sanctioned outing, but Pippa is looking at her expectantly, and she sighs.

“Extra credit, then,” she says. “For one student from each school, to be awarded as Miss Pentangle and I see fit.”

She arches an eyebrow in question, and Pippa nods. “Excellent plan, Miss Hardbroom.”

“So we won’t get in trouble if it’s rubbish?” Dylan asks, prompting stifled laughter from around the circle.

Pippa starts to answer, a placating, “I’m certain it won’t be—”

But Hecate cuts her off, fixing Dylan with a glare that makes them shrink back a bit.

“You represent one of the finest witching academies in Europe,” Hecate says sharply, “You would do well to remember that, and refrain from any work that might…embarrass Miss Pentangle.”

Beside her, she can see Pippa stifling a smirk. “What Miss Hardbroom means is that we know you’ll try your best, regardless of your interest in the extra credit. Isn’t that right, Hecate?”

Hecate doesn’t answer, continuing to eye Dylan until they give a nod and sloppy salute. “Do my best, Miss,” they say, and Pippa smiles, clapping her hands once in delight.

“Alright, then. Now that’s settled, who wants s’mores?”

“What’s a ‘s’more,’ Miss Pentangle?” Archie asks eagerly, and Hecate transfers away, uninterested in the undoubtedly _American_ atrocity about to be committed on English soil.

As the sun sinks below the horizon completely, Pippa lights the fire in a display of pink magic that makes Hecate want to roll her eyes, but the students are delighted. They sit around, swapping stories about their schools, their families, their teachers.

Pippa sits with them and answers questions while Hecate sets up wards around the campsite, alarms and protection barriers and anything else to keep the students safe and where they’re supposed to be at all times. She tunes out most of the conversations, letting it dull to a steady hum of chatter.

When she’s finished, she walks around the camp, a fair distance away, giving the children their space.

She knows they don’t want her there, not really. Knows they’ll find her insistence on studying and rules a “downer” for the trip. She doesn’t want to be here either, frankly, but if they’re to be stuck with one another for a week in the woods, Hecate figures they might as well give each other a wide berth whenever possible.

The students seem to agree, as her ears prick at the sound of her name.

“Watch out for Miss Hardbroom,” Enid tells Dylan from the other side of the camp, assuming she can’t hear. “She never lets us get away with anything. And she _knows everything._ ”

Transferring behind her, Hecate hides a smirk when Dylan nearly falls off the log at her presence. “Quite right, Miss Nightshade,” she says easily, and Enid hisses out a quiet, “ _See?”_ but Hecate ignores them, wandering away, her point made.  

On the other side of the circle she spies Pippa watching her, a small, fond smirk at the corner of her mouth, and Hecate looks away.

It’s already too much. Being in Pippa’s presence, feeling her soft gaze on her back wherever she goes. She remembers how it felt to fly next to her, to see the bright spot of pink in her peripheral vision, where it always used to be.

It had taken her decades not to expect it anymore. Not to turn her head mid flight and expect to see her there, always smiling, hair waving behind her in the wind.

It isn’t that she doesn’t adore Pippa’s company, but that she adores it too much. That every hour spent with her is an hour her walls come down, just a little.  She thinks, by the end of the week, there may be nothing left, and it terrifies her.

Even if they were alone it would terrify her, but with all the students around, she cannot afford any kind of vulnerability. Cannot, even for a moment, want anything more than the week to be over.

But she does. She wants so much, so clearly, and Hecate has to dig her fingernails into her hands to ground herself, to ignore the way the fire casts shadows on Pippa’s skin or the way she laughs or the line of her wrist as she stokes the fire.

 _Enough_ , she thinks to herself, tuning back into the conversations around the campfire just in time to hear Felicity’s curious,

“Do you know any ghost stories, Miss Pentangle?”

There’s an eruption of excited murmurs, a few, “Please, Miss Pentangle?”s and far too much grinning.

Pippa sighs, a quirked smile on her face as she shakes her head. “I’m afraid I don’t,” she admits, much to their dismay; but Hecate is relieved—perhaps she can convince Pippa to make everyone turn in early—until Pippa’s voice turns sly, and she leans forward as if in secret.  “But, I know someone who does.”

She slides her gaze to Hecate with a raised eyebrow, a smile and a dare and it feels like they’re back in school, Pippa sneaking into Hecate’s room in the dead of night with a plan to see the restricted section of the library, or the meteor shower, or simply make an ill-advised trip to the kitchens.

Hecate stiffens as all the eyes turn to her, feels the shock ripple through the circle, the whispered, disbelieving, “ _Miss Hardbroom?_ ”

Hecate purses her lips. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

“That doesn’t mean there aren’t ghost _stories_ ,” Pippa says. “Come on, Hecate. I know you remember them.”

She does. Remembers all the stories she used to tell Pippa, about witches and werewolves and nymphs and vampires, never intended as a scary story, always recited as fact. But Pippa had loved listening to her, for some reason.  

It was theirs, something neither shared with anyone else, and Hecate tries not to feel a bit betrayed by Pippa’s ease, her willingness to let their past bleed into the future. Hecate holds every part of it close to her chest, reluctant to release even a thread, should the entire spool unravel.

“They aren’t appropriate,“ she says, turning away.  “More aptly, they’re pointless. The real world is far more terrifying than any fairy tale.”

The children groan, and she feels a tug on her chest at their dejected looks. Pippa sighs, but doesn’t press, and Hecate transfers away, unable to bear the look of disappointment on her face, the rejection.

She doesn’t mean to reject her. Doesn’t mean or want to cause her pain, any more than she already has. But Pippa is so open, still, even after all these years, so effusive with her praise and liberal with her feelings.

Hecate thinks of her words from the last time she visited Cackle’s, her desire to immediately set things straight, her willingness to say exactly what she meant, without condition or cover or regret.

 _I never wanted to be better than you. I wanted to be like you_.

Hecate doesn’t know why. Can’t imagine, even when they were children, why Pippa would aspire to be anything like her—cold and distant and reclusive. Why she’d want to emulate anything Hecate had to offer.

But it puts things in perspective, in a way she’d never considered before. The competition between them—friendly, but with a hint of rivalry—the way Pippa used to ask her opinion about anything and everything, from music to books to spells to potions. Hecate always thought she was being polite, to some extent, always trying to involve Hecate in conversation, to draw her out. She appreciated it, the way Pippa made her feel comfortable. Like she _could_ say anything. Like she could be honest.

But it was more than that. More than curiosity, and she remembers now little things she’d always overlooked—the way Pippa would catch herself slouching, and sit straight for as long as she remembered to; the way she’d watch Hecate’s hands in potions before stirring her own; even the way she started to dress, a bit more conservative, a bit less colorful.

She thinks of that gold gown, bright and sparkling. She’d worn it after Hecate had left—fled, if she’s honest with herself—worn it to a ball where she was the center of attention, where everyone flocked to her, fawned over her.

She got the attention she always deserved that night, with Hecate out of the way. That was all it had taken. The moment Hecate was gone, Pippa shined. She started talking more and went back to her usual vibrant pinks. She had more friends, laughed more often. And yet—

_I didn’t care about those silly witches. You were the only one I wanted to be friends with._

Hecate can’t imagine how her words could be true, but at the same time, she can’t imagine Pippa lying, not about that. Not when she had no reason to, no purpose. Not when Pippa is the one who stayed, who waited. Pippa who asked, Pippa who offered a hand, who tried to mend the bridge Hecate would have let drown.

Part of her knows this week is an opportunity. To be a little lighter, a little looser. To try to show Pippa, in whatever small ways she can, that she too wants to fix things. That she wants to meet her halfway.

But another, louder part of her doesn’t know how she can. Not with all the students around. Not with their surroundings.

Not with the ghost of a children’s song echoing in her head, and a chill in her bones she can’t quite shake.

\--

Getting the girls into bed is worse than wrangling familiars. They’re wired from the sugar, still excited about the week ahead, and Pippa’s firm but gentle coaxing is taking too long.

It isn’t that Hecate particularly wants to go to bed—in fact, she’s dreading it—but the noise is too much, the laughter too gleeful, and she finally snaps, shouting at them to _do as they’re told_.

It makes her nauseous the moment she says it, a sinister echo in her head, a spidery hand curled over her shoulder, a hissed, _do as you’re told, girl, or there will be consequences._

She swallows it down, swallows the guilt at the hint of fear in some of their eyes, the disapproval on Pippa’s face.

But it works—of course, it works—and the girls settle, get ready for bed in relative quiet and slip into their own rooms. She’s under no illusion that they won’t talk into the early hours of the morning, but when she goes around to check, every light is off, except for Mildred’s. Naturally.

Hecate grits her teeth. “Why is it always _you?”_

Mildred ducks her head. “I’m sorry, Miss Hardbroom, it’s just that—”

“I don’t want excuses. Go to bed.”

She clicks her fingers to turn off the lights, and shuts the door before Mildred can say another word. She has to force herself to take a deep breath, and it catches in her throat when she sees Pippa watching her from the hallway, a frown on her face.

She says nothing, not until they’ve both done their final checks in silence, until all the wards are in place and there’s nothing left to do but go to bed themselves.

They’re unpacking a few items into drawers when Pippa finally speaks, a building sharpness to her voice that Hecate knows she’s been carrying for hours.

“Are you really going to be like this all week?”

“Like what?”

“Disgruntled. Bitter. Snappish.”

Burying the shock of hurt that rattles her system, Hecate arches an eyebrow neatly. “Have you ever known me not to be those things?”

“Yes,” she says. “You used to be—”

“What?” Hecate interrupts sharply, not truly wanting to hear what Pippa plans to say. Doesn’t want the trip down memory lane. Doesn’t want the reminder of who she might have been, once upon a time.

Pippa startles at her tone, dropping her arms. “I was going to say ‘happier.’”

Hecate nearly scowls, turning away to hide her expression. She doesn’t want to be angry, but it’s frustrating, navigating new territory with Pippa. Pippa, who seems to think she’s still the girl she used to be, despite the years and miles between them. Pippa, who wants her friend back, not seeming to realize that Hecate buried that girl decades ago.

She supposes it makes sense—why on earth would Pippa want her as she is now?—but it doesn’t stop the lance of pain through her chest every time Pippa digs up the past, tries to place it in the light.

Prodding around in her meticulously packed bag for the sake of having something to do, Hecate shrugs. “I’ve never understood the obsession with being ‘happy,’” she says.  “Spending one’s entire life in pursuit of something so... frivolous.”

Pippa frowns. “How is being happy frivolous?”

“It’s nonessential.  You don’t need it to survive, to perform admirably.”

“There’s more to life than duty, Hecate.  When’s the last time you woke up with a smile on your face? Or thought, ‘today’s going to be a good day’?”

“Prior to Mildred Hubble,” she says immediately, though she knows it isn’t true. Life may have been a bit less exciting prior to Mildred’s arrival, but Hecate wouldn’t call it happy.

She’s felt...content before. When she takes afternoon tea with Ada. When Morgana demands attention. When she finishes a particularly good book or an essay or a lecture.

But happy?

Unbidden, she thinks of her mother.  Of gentle and sure hands through her hair, a soft voice, reading from her favorite book. The rise and fall of her chest that drifted Hecate off to sleep.

Shaking her head, she pushes the memories aside. They do no good now, serve no purpose other than to make her feel far too many things, grief and guilt and, though she never acknowledges it, an anger buried so deep she’s not sure she’d be able to access it if she wanted to.

But when she glances up to wave off Pippa’s question, she’s watching her almost nervously, worriedly, a frown on her face, and Hecate pauses.

“What?”

Pippa’s frown deepens.  “I just—that’s really sad, Hecate. That you don’t think being happy is important.”

Hecate swallows, feels chastised, feels like she’s missing something, something everyone else knows and understands. And she hates that it’s Pippa who’s made her feel this way.

She knows it isn’t on purpose. Knows, even as children, that Pippa tried to explain things to her that she couldn’t quite grasp - the point of parties and presents and social mores. But she also remembers Pippa would get frustrated. Couldn’t understand why Hecate couldn’t simply participate in group activities, or relax and ‘let loose’ once in a while. It’s a mirror image, the expression Pippa wore then, and the one she’s wearing now, and Hecate averts her gaze and squares her shoulders defensively.  

“Simply because you find it a worthwhile endeavor doesn’t make it so for everyone.”

“You don’t think you deserve to be happy?”

Hecate flinches, opens her mouth and closes it again, unsure how to explain, how to change the defiant, wounded expression on Pippa’s face.

“If everyone got exactly what they deserved, the world would be a much different place,” she says shortly, and thinks of Agatha, in the painting; thinks of Miss Mould, without magic, sent to live in the ordinary world for the rest of her life.

She thinks of a red rose and laughter.

Or maybe not so different at all, she thinks.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Pippa says, her tone unreadable, and Hecate clenches her jaw.

“No,” she says curtly, “I suppose it doesn’t.”

Waving a hand, she transfers to the restroom on their floor, changes into her nightclothes, long pants and a long-sleeved button down. She takes her hair down but leaves it in its plait, and braces her hands against the sink.

She wishes she knew how to talk to Pippa. How to hold a conversation without feeling attacked, without getting defensive. Without hurting her.

Glancing up, she takes stock of her appearance, the lines on her face, the heavy set of her shoulders. She looks as exhausted as she feels, and knows that if it keeps on this way, she’ll need a glamor spell to hide the dark circles and pallor of her skin.

She supposes that’s what she gets for living off Wide Awake potions and bitter tea.

By the time she returns to the bedroom, her face is washed and her teeth are clean but she feels no lighter, no less tense than before, and it doesn’t help that Pippa has clearly been waiting for her, sitting on the edge of the bed still in her day clothes, head hung.

“I don’t want to fight,” she says, looking up at her imploringly. “I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks—ever since Ada cancelled.”

Hecate frowns.  “Looking forward to...the trip?”

Pippa sighs. “Looking forward to spending time with _you_.”

It’s almost out of her mouth, the _why would you_ — but she catches it, tucks it under her tongue.

Pippa stands, hands fidgeting in front of her, and Hecate remembers when they were girls, how every time she wanted to ask something she wasn’t sure about, every time she was nervous, she’d do the same thing. It was her tell, an obvious one, but it makes Hecate soften, dropping her shoulders slightly.

“I…would also prefer not to fight,” she says, though it sounds gruff and grudging. She doesn’t mean it that way, and somehow Pippa seems to know that, or isn’t bothered by her tone.

“Good,” she says, smiling, relief coloring her features. “I’m really glad you’re here, Hiccup.”

Hecate isn’t sure what to say to that—she doesn’t _want_ to be here—but she can’t say that, can’t explain the difference between wanting Pippa’s presence —always, wanting, terribly—and her need to be home, where it’s calm and quiet and safe. Where she isn’t exposed. Where she can hide.

She nods, doesn’t say anything at all, but Pippa doesn’t seem to mind. She turns and changes into her own nightclothes, a pair of pink flannel pyjamas. She disappears for a while, and Hecate stands in the center of the room for a long moment, unsure what to do.

Her thoughts won’t settle, and she’s wary of the too-small bed, afraid she’ll slip. Afraid she’ll curl herself into Pippa’s space unknowingly. Afraid she’ll push her away. Afraid she’ll have nightmares and be forced to explain.

Eventually, she tugs back the covers and slides into the left side, as close to the edge as she can get. She waves a hand to turn off the lights, and by the time Pippa returns, she’s tucked into herself, pretending to be asleep.

She hears Pippa move around quietly, hears her bump into something and curse quietly under her breath. Feels the bed dip, and she tenses. But Pippa stays on her side, doesn’t move any closer. Hecate exhales slowly, tries to regulate her breathing, but she’s constantly aware of Pippa’s presence at her back, of Pippa’s sighs and Pippa’s movements and the thin space between them.


	2. the crouched, parched heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- see part one

**** Pippa is teaching the students camp songs. Cute, simple ditties for remembering the names of plants, magic melodies that add little sparks to the air, little rainbows. The students are seated in a wide circle around the campfire, some on chairs from the cabin, most on logs, a few cross-legged on the ground.

She might, perhaps, find it bemusing if it were just Pippa, singing brightness into being. But it isn’t. It’s off-key voices, too loud and too boisterous. The lyrics are repetitive, grating, and Hecate feels her teeth start to grind together as she paces the outskirts of the camp.

It’s unseasonably warm, and despite the cooling spell she keeps around her, she can feel the warmth of the sun pressing against her shoulders. Pippa had suggested she wear something lighter, but the thought of being without the comforting, confining material of her dress made her feel faintly panicked. She needs the structure, the press of the belt around her stomach. 

Pippa, of course, had no qualms about simplifying her wardrobe—she’s dressed in shorts and a pink t-shirt, one that clings to her arms and waist and Hecate has to avert her gaze multiple times to keep from staring, from longing. 

The students are all dressed in shorts and t-shirts as well, save Dylan, their pale skin covered almost entirely by trousers and a flannel button down. The others tease them, and Hecate flinches—but Dylan laughs carelessly and throws their baseball cap at Nawal. 

“You try being translucent,” they gripe, but it’s good-natured, and Nawal secures their cap back on their head with a smile. 

Hecate watches from the shade of the cabin, and wishes she could have been like that. Wishes she could have met the teasing and clipped words that followed her with laughter and a shrug. There’s a difference, she knows—Dylan’s friends don’t mean to harm—but still, she wonders if she’d been less affected, less hurt, if they would have bothered her less. If her reactions only fueled their ire. 

She thinks of Pippa, her elbow snug in Hecate’s, pulling her along with a glower. 

_Don’t listen to them,_ she used to say. _They couldn’t brew half the things you can with enhanced powers, let alone their own._ She said it loudly, in ear-shot. _They’re just jealous._

Hecate doubted that, but let Pippa pretend. Let her lead her away to their own quiet corner, where they’d settle, always with some part of Pippa touching some part of Hecate. 

_You know they’re just being stupid, right?_ Pippa would say, and Hecate would nod. 

_Of course,_ she’d say, and Pippa would smile, but she’d stay close, like she knew. 

Like she knew Hecate didn’t quite believe. 

Hecate loved those moments. The balm of Pippa’s presence on an open wound, the way she always tried to make Hecate laugh, pulled ridiculous faces and said ridiculous things, all in search of a smile. 

Hecate can’t remember laughing often, but when she did, Pippa would beam at her, a smile so luminous it made her whole face brighter than starlight. It made her feel special, then, that Pippa tried so hard. Made her feel wanted. 

Pippa still makes her feel that way, even now. Even after all the years. Hecate thought it would be different—thought, even after they reconciled, that the distance between them would be too great. That they’d both have changed too much, in too many ways, to find their way back into anything resembling a friendship. 

But she’d been wrong. It was almost too easy, falling back into gentle teasing, into passionate debates and long conversations and gentle silences. They’ve both changed—Hecate knows she’s even more guarded, even more reserved, more strict, more damaged than she ever was, and Pippa is, too, in some ways—more careful with her heart than she used to be, a bit pettier, a bit more impulsive, a bit more confident. But she’s also kept the things Hecate always loved about her—her creativity, her intelligence, her joy, her sense of humor, her protective nature. 

As awkward as it’s been at times, she’s loved relearning Pippa. Seeing how she’s grown, changed, how she’s stayed the same. 

But part of her had hoped, fruitlessly, that maybe she herself would have moved on. That Pippa’s smile wouldn’t make her throat tighten the way it used to. That her laugh wouldn’t tug something loose in her chest. That the touch of her hand wouldn’t make her shiver. 

She’d been wrong about that, too. 

She’d hardly slept, too aware of the space between them, too afraid of what might happen if she let herself relax. If she’d move closer, seek Pippa out the way she used to, when they were young. 

It was innocent then, but Hecate imagines Pippa wouldn’t take too kindly to it now, waking up with a face full of Hecate’s hair and an arm slung over her waist. Wouldn’t want to see the love-sick expression she’s certain she wouldn’t be able to hide. 

So she’d merely dozed, jolting awake every hour or so, relieved each time to find she’d stayed on her side of the bed. 

But she hadn’t been able to avoid Pippa in the morning, though she’d tried. Tried to slip out early before she woke; but Pippa’s eyes had fluttered open at the sound of Hecate’s movements, her sleepy smile clenching something in Hecate’s chest. She’d mumbled a _good morning_ , her voice slurred and husky, rolled over into Hecate’s vacant space, and had gone back to sleep for another hour while Hecate tried to enjoy the brief period of peace before all the girls awoke. 

It was difficult, with Pippa’s sleep-tousled hair and soft expression seared into her memory. She thinks about waking up like that every day, about tucking one of the loose strands of Pippa’s wild hair around her head, of pressing a kiss to her forehead while she sleeps.

Hecate shakes herself, shoving the thoughts angrily aside. It doesn’t do to dwell on what you can’t have, she reminds herself sternly. She really should have learned that lesson already. 

She can brew nearly every potion perfectly, learned quickly that Miss Broomhead only allowed one chance, one opportunity to get it right, or there were consequences. But she’s never quite figured out how to memorize the lessons of her heart. Keeps making the same mistakes, over and over. 

_ Pay attention, child! _

She hears the voice so clearly, so loudly, that she startles, looks around the camp, but there’s no one there. Her heart rate picks up as her eyes dart around the treeline, half expecting her old tutor to come out of the brush. To punish her for some failing or another. 

Hecate’s certain she’d have more than words for her now, after the last two years. 

But Miss Broomhead is gone, has no control over her any more, and Hecate repeats it to herself for a few moments, to recenter herself. 

It’s easier, once she has something to do. Once Pippa stands aside and lets Hecate take over the lecture for the morning. 

She knows their styles are quite different, sees the way Pippa’s students frown and look around wide-eyed and confused at her brusque introduction to the topic, the quick way she relays information. 

The lecture goes fine, goes quickly. The students are mostly silent, hardly any questions. They keep their heads ducked over their notes, writing down the names of plants and their properties, their physical attributes. Pippa’s students appear to be scrambling a bit to keep up, but her own girls, she notices, seem to have little issue, and it curls something warm and bright in her chest, almost like pride. 

She tells them to watch out for hemlock and wolfsbane and not to handle anything they don’t recognize, particularly terebachia. It’s rare, she knows, but often grows in places fairies have been, a way to keep people from disturbing their rings or offerings. 

“One cut of its thorns can kill you,” she says, displaying a picture of the bright red ivy-like plant. “If you see it, alert me or Miss Pentangle immediately.” 

The students nod, and write it down, and out of the corner of her eye, Hecate catches Mildred, frantically copying the drawing in her notebook. 

She purses her lips but says nothing, not this time. It’s useful, she supposes, to have a visual representation, she just hopes it isn’t distracting her, that she isn’t more focused on her drawings than the information. 

Beside her, Maud’s head droops, and her pencil keeps skittering across the page. 

“Miss Spellbody.” 

Maud jumps, clutching her pencil as she looks up, eyes wide. 

“Perhaps you would be more interested in a nap than the assignment?” 

Maud’s face pales and she shakes her head, sitting up straighter. 

“Sorry, Miss Hardbroom.” 

“It’s not her fault, Miss Hardbroom,” Mildred says, and Hecate shifts to glare at her. “She didn’t sleep well because—”

“I’m not interested in excuses, Mildred Hubble,” Hecate interrupts, “Nor does Miss Spellbody need you to speak for her.” She arches an eyebrow at Maud. “Is there something you’d like to say, Miss Spellbody?” 

The camp is quiet, all the students staring at Maud, and Hecate feels a bit uncertain about calling her out; but she has to learn to speak on her own, has to learn to stand up for herself. She’s a fantastic advocate for other people, Hecate has noticed, and rallies around her friends without issue. But when it comes to herself, she wilts, and Hecate knows the feeling, knows what it’s like to stand quiet in someone’s shadow. She wants her to speak up, speak out, and she can’t do that with Mildred Hubble interfering. 

Instead, Maud gulps and shakes her head quickly. “No, Miss Hardbroom.” 

Hecate sighs, disappointed, and moves on. On the other side of the camp, Pippa frowns at her, and Hecate looks away. There’s something about her expression that makes her feel small, feel as though she’s done something wrong, though she isn’t entirely sure what.  

The rest of the lecture goes quickly enough, and Pippa takes over leading the group through the forest in search of ingredients. They’ve been divided into teams, given a sheet of paper with various flora and fauna, and expected to collect as many samples as possible.

Hecate doesn’t know what prize Pippa has chosen for the winner, and doesn’t particularly care. She stays toward the back of the groups, catching any stragglers, keeping an eye out for other nymphs or fairies or non-magical creatures. 

She doesn’t think the forest is particularly dangerous, not at this time of year, but it still makes her anxious. All her charges, running around, half-unsupervised. She thinks of crumbling castle walls and tainted food and frost and watches them all closely, hyper aware all the while of Pippa watching her. 

She gets distracted by Dylan, reaching for a foxglove flower, and transfers just in time to snatch their hand away from the plant.

“What did I tell you?” she snaps.

Dylan looks faintly embarrassed. “I thought it was a bluebell.”

“An amateur mistake,” she seethes, but lets them go, eyeing the others in the group.

She’s moving away when she hears it, Dylan’s mumbled, “I think I would have liked Miss Softbroom better.”

Enid snorts. “You should have seen her when she was hanging all over Mr. Rowan-Webb. Even under a love potion she was scary.” 

Mildred elbows Enid in the ribs. “Enid!” 

“What? It’s true. HB needs a personality potion to relax—literally.” 

There’s an eruption of giggles, and Hecate flinches. She’d known it would get out, has known for months that most of the school is aware of what transpired when Ada was gone and Clarice and Beatrice gave her the potion. 

She tries her best to school her expression, but she’s not fast enough. Pippa is staring at her, confused, and Hecate knows she heard. Knows she’ll ask. 

Knows the conversation is coming and she balls her hands into fists and turns away. 

She knows that unlike the personality potion, the love potion wasn’t intended for her. Wasn’t born out of malice or frustration or hate. 

But there’s an acid taste in her mouth, and she remembers the aftermath, remembers transfering to her quarters when all was said and done and throwing up, choking on the taste of punch and the subtle itch of potion that she should have caught the first time. 

It’s the first time she’s been confronted with it, the first time anyone has said anything in her presence, even unintentionally, and it makes her feel small. Feel like a child again, ducking whispers in the hall.

She’s known for months it was them. Enid and Mildred. Ada had informed her and the rest of the staff that two students, in an attempt to fix the strain between Ms. Bat and Mr. Rowan-Web, had spiked the faculty punch with a love potion. But she never said who, believed that they might be “unfairly targeted” by the staff over what was, at worst, an error in judgement. Easily fixed. 

But she’d overheard them one night, talking in the library, Maud’s hissed, “You remember what happened the last time you tried a potion? You drugged the entire staff!” 

Enid had laughed and Mildred had looked at least chagrined, and Hecate had made both their lives particularly difficult for weeks. Harsher on both of them than she’d ever been, and made it obvious to them that she knew. That this was their punishment. Longer detentions, extra essays, one very pointedly on the ethics of emotionally manipulative potions and spells. 

It was two months before Mildred showed up in her office, Enid in tow, and apologized. “We spoke to Ms. Bat, and Mr. Rowan-Webb, and Miss Drill, too,” Mildred had said, staring at a point over Hecate’s shoulder until she could gather her courage to look her in the eye and say, “I’m sorry. What we did was wrong, and I’m sorry we hurt you.” 

Hecate had nodded slowly. “This doesn’t get you out of detention.” 

Mildred had almost smiled. “Of course not, Miss Hardbroom.”

“Then go.” 

They’d nodded and disappeared and the next morning Hecate found her potions lab in pristine condition, and a redrafted essay on her desk that earned slightly better marks than its predecessor. 

And that had been the end of it. It helped, in some small way, to know the girls at least learned something from it. That even though she still wakes in the middle of the night with a hollow feeling in her chest and sugar on her tongue, those nights are few and far between now. She’s confident Mildred, at least, will not be so foolish again. 

Enid doesn’t appear to have learned such a lesson, and Hecate snipes at the group to hurry up, hoping to break up the conversation. They quickly do as they’re told, but it doesn’t help. Doesn’t calm the twinge in her chest or the unsettled feeling in her gut, the echo of laughter from up ahead. 

\--

They split up after lunch. Pippa takes one group into the forest to “commune with nature” or some other modern nonsense, and Hecate takes another group to practice tracking and plant identification. 

“Take Miss Nightshade with you,” she says. It isn’t fair to separate her from her friends and keep the other two together; but she’s angry and embarrassed and doesn’t want to see the glint in Enid's eyes. 

_ They’re children, Hecate _ , a voice in her head says, one that sounds suspiciously like Ada.  _ They’re only children. _

It’s ridiculous and foolish, to be even remotely intimidated by a child. But every time Enid looks at her, she sees laughter behind her eyes, cruel and taunting, and looks away. 

Her group is mostly made up of students from Pippa’s school, along with Mildred and Maud. She quizzes them about plants and flowers and their properties in potions, pleasantly surprised when Mildred’s drawings seem to have worked, and she easily identifies several of the plants they discussed earlier. Even Pippa’s students do a decent job, and Hecate can’t help but comment dryly, “At least all that modern magic hasn’t diminished your retention.” 

Pippa’s students roll their eyes, and Hecate wonders if Pippa warned them about her, her strictness or dourness or judgement of their education system. Not that it matters - she wouldn’t alter it regardless, and she knows that even if Pippa doesn’t care for her methods, she trusts her enough to leave her students alone with her, just as Hecate trusts her. 

To teach them. 

To keep them safe. 

They’re near the lake when Hecate hears something move, something quiet but sharp, and she freezes, holding up a hand. 

“Silence!”

The students stop moving, stop talking, and Hecate strains to listen, searching for the unfamiliar sound. 

She hears it again, a whine, almost a sob, but muffled.  

She turns back to the group, eyes scanning their faces to ensure she hasn’t missed anyone. But her students are all accounted for, and she’s certain Pippa’s are as well. Besides, it doesn’t sound human, though it does sound as though it’s in pain. 

Holding a hand out to keep her group where they are, Hecate takes a few more steps down the path before she stops to listen again. There’s a faint cry from her left, and she tries to zero in on the sound, eyes scanning the dense brush. 

Behind her, the students have started murmuring, whispering to each other, and Hecate tries to tune it out, focuses on the sound as she picks her way carefully through the roots and flowers. 

She stops next to an old oak tree and listens, hears the wail again louder, as if the tree itself were— 

Hecate blinks. Chooses a spot near the base of the tree, and lets her eyesight drift just slightly out of focus. 

There, curled up on the ground, is a dryad, her head tucked into her knees, long hair covering most of her body. She’s camouflaged into the brush, only her soft weeping giving her away. 

Hecate lets her eyes scan the trees around her, but she sees no other nymphs, which means this one is lost. Alone. 

Hecate knows the feeling. 

Kneeling slowly, carefully, Hecate balances on the balls of her feet, tries to shrink herself as much as possible. 

“Hello?” she says softly, so quietly; but the dryad starts regardless, huge eyes blinking up at her as it starts to scramble away. “It’s alright,” Hecate murmurs. “I won’t hurt you.” She presses her hand to her forehead. “Well met, sister.” 

The dryad stares at her, seems to recognize the movement at least, if not the words. A sign that she is not ordinary, that she has magic, that she comes in peace. 

“What’s going on?” Matthew asks, too loudly, and the dryad whips her head around, half disappearing into the tree. 

“There’s a creature!” 

“What is it?”   
  
“Can you see it?” 

“Miss Hardbroom—”

“I said silence!” she hisses, freezing Nawal in her tracks before she can take a step off the path. 

Nawal gulps and dutifully places her foot back on the road, and Hecate turns back to the dryad, who’s watching her avidly, unblinking. 

“They mean you no harm,” she says. “They are merely students. Children.” 

The dryad tilts her head but says nothing, baby cheeks rosy and puffy from crying. 

Hecate swallows the uncomfortable knot in her throat. “Are you lost?” 

The dryad hesitates, then opens her mouth, a soft, whistling sound, almost like music rolling off her tongue. 

She stares at Hecate expectantly. 

“I don’t understand,” she admits. 

The dryad makes the same sound again, and Hecate tries to remember something, anything from her studies that would help her communicate. 

“Miss Hardbroom?” Matthew whispers, leaning forward but remaining on the path. “Is it a dryad?” 

She turns to glare at him for interrupting, and he quickly blurts, “Miss Pentangle speaks their language, I think.” 

Hecate frowns. 

Pippa’s never mentioned studying their language, not even in passing, but then, she supposes, they’ve barely caught up on the past six months, let alone the past thirty years. It makes her chest ache for all the things they have yet to learn. 

She nods, prepared to merely summon Pippa until she remembers that she, too, is in the woods with a group of students, and she’s no idea how far they’ve gone or in what direction. Whether the pupils could find their way back to camp alone. 

Looking back at the dryad, she licks her lips and tries, fruitlessly, “I know someone who can help.”

The dryad makes a cooing sound, looking out at her from behind her hair. 

Hecate holds out a hand, hoping she’ll understand. The dryad looks from her hand to her face and back again, before extending her own arm, palm up, in mimicry. 

There’s a cut near the inside of her elbow, small but deep, and Hecate winces. She reaches forward, then freezes when the dryad startles back, and holds up her hand placatingly. 

“I can heal you,” she says. 

The dryad merely stares.

She hesitates for a moment, then pulls one of the pins from her hair, uses her magic to sharpen it, and makes a tiny cut on her finger.  The dryad leans further back against the tree, until Hecate vanishes the pin and holds out her hand. There’s a small drop of blood on her finger that vanishes when she waves her hand over it, healing it instantly.  She gestures carefully to the dryad’s arm, and waves her hand in the same motion. 

“What’s she doing?” Maud asks quietly, and there are whispers but she ignores them, holding her breath. 

Slowly, eyes unblinking, the dryad holds out her arm. 

Hecate forces herself to smile, and gently cups one hand under her elbow, then waves her fingers over the wound. 

It seals itself within moments, and she lets go, leaning back to allow the dryad to assess her arm. Her lower lip wobbles, and it’s the only warning Hecate has before the dryad launches herself into Hecate’s arms, clinging to her neck. 

Hecate nearly over balances, just manages to catch herself and stands, instinctively bringing her arms up around the creature, patting her back awkwardly. 

“It’s alright,” she says quietly. “You’re alright.” 

“Miss Hardbroom? What do we do now?” 

Hecate doesn’t think the dryad would take too kindly to a transfer, and with her arms wrapped around her neck, she doesn’t want to find out. 

“Back to camp,” she says. “We’ll wait for Miss Pentangle.”

\--

She feels ridiculous, summoning a bird and sending it after Pippa with a note in its claws. It’s far too fairytale, too dramatic even for her, but short of transferring the entire group back (magical energy she doesn’t want to expend) or sending the students out after her (a mistake, she’s utterly certain) there’s little choice. 

The cabin is even warmer than outside, but the dryad refuses to let go of her. She’s snuggled into Hecate’s neck, one chubby arm now looped around her back, the other hand curled around her necklace. She watches the students out from behind her hair, thick and full of twigs and leaves, which drapes over most of her body. 

Hecate tries to set her down several times, but she whines so loudly, so pitifully, Hecate finds herself sighing and leaving her where she is, perched on her hip like a toddler. 

She’s about the same size, but her skin is coarse, almost like bark, and green, from what Hecate can see. Though when she catches sight of herself in the mirror, the dryad has camouflaged part of herself against Hecate, so her legs disappear, look the same pattern as her dress. 

“A raven? Seriously?” 

Hecate jumps, whirling to find Pippa in the doorway, looking a bit haphazard, a bit nervous. Her hair is disheveled and she’s panting slightly and it takes all of Hecate’s concentration not to look down, to keep her expression neutral, if not slightly irritated. 

“You’d have preferred something else?” 

“Something a little less ominous, next time,” Pippa says, stepping out of the way to allow the rest of her group inside. “A sparrow would have killed you?” 

“Forgive me, but I had more pressing matters to contend with than what type of bird would most please you.” 

Pippa rolls her eyes, then frowns, tiling her head. “What are you holding?” 

“We found her in the forest.”

“Her?”

Pippa blinks, and Hecate sees the moment she realizes, the moment the dryad catches her eye completely, and she gasps. “Oh! She’s beautiful,” Pippa says, taking a step forward. The dryad whines and tightens her hold, burying her face in Hecate’s neck. Pippa stops and holds up her hands placatingly.  “What—how did you—”

“A story for another time,” Hecate says, then adds somewhat awkwardly, “Mr. Kaufmann informed me you speak her language. Is that correct?” 

“I—yes,” Pippa says, still wide-eyed. “It’s been a long time, but I’m sure I can remember something.”

She clears her throat, and speaks in what sounds like a gentle tone, though Hecate has no idea what she’s saying. But the dryad perks up, turning to eye Pippa cautiously. 

When she answers, the dryad’s voice is calmer than before, but Hecate can feel her muscles tense, and she refuses to relax her grip. 

Pippa responds, and Hecate hears her name, mixed in amongst the vowel sounds and melody. 

The dryad turns back and looks up at Hecate, chewing on her lip. Then she reaches up with a calloused hand and pats Hecate’s cheek, says her name stiffly, the sounds unnatural from her lips. 

Hecate decidedly does not blush, despite the tittering of the students and Pippa’s soft smile. 

“She says you saved her.” 

“I found her,” Hecate corrects. 

“And healed her. She says she was in pain, and frightened.”

“Then perhaps we should determine how she became separated from the others, and how best to help her return to them.”

“Right now?” 

Hecate frowns. “As opposed to when?”

“This is a fabulous opportunity, Hecate. Dryads are notoriously cagey creatures, but this one trusts you. Perhaps she’d be willing to talk to us, to share some of her life, a real dialogue. If we published our findings, it could go a long way to developing some real cooperation between witches and dryads, or—”

“‘Findings’?”

Pippa startles at her tone, low and dangerous, and Hecate feels the room tense, the students looking between them avidly. Pippa narrows her eyes. 

“You’re the one who wanted to make this trip a ‘learning opportunity.’ I’m not suggesting we force her into anything, just to ask if she’d be willing to—”

“To let you pick her brain, so-to-speak?” Hecate challenges. She isn’t quite sure why she’s so defensive, but the thought of interrogating the creature, the thought of doing anything other than returning her to her family makes Hecate’s throat close up and her heart start to race. 

Oblivious, Pippa continues, “You make it sound like I want to torture the poor thing. I’m talking about a dialogue, a chance to learn about one another as a species—”

“So that you can write about it.”

“Alright, I won’t write about it,” Pippa huffs. “It’ll just be for the students. Give them a chance to—”

“No,” Hecate says, finished with the conversation, with Pippa’s cavalier attitude. “I will not violate the trust of a defenseless creature so you and your pupils can—” 

“They’re your pupils, too,” Pippa counters. “And I’m not asking you to break her trust. I’m merely saying that a chance like this comes along so rarely, we’d be fools not to take advantage of it.”

“The only reason we’re in this position at all is because she was injured. Dryads are not interested in the rest of the magical world, and we have an obligation to respect that. They don’t exist for our study or amusement.”

“For goodness sake, Hecate, I’m not talking about locking her in a cage and selling tickets. I’m talking about a few questions. Perhaps if we knew more about them we could better protect them from—“

“From what? Situations like this?” 

“From someone else who  _ would _ take advantage.”

“I would prefer not to be the lesser of two evils.”

Pippa purses her lips. “Perhaps we should ask the students. Let them decide what they believe is the right—”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is not a game, and certainly is not a decision for a child.”

“I don’t think you’re giving them enough credit. They’re old enough to make a mature decision. They wouldn’t do anything to harm another living creature,” Pippa says, and she sounds so sure, so confident, that Hecate flinches. 

She turns away, still holding the dryad tightly to her chest, and tries not to think about roses and nursery rhymes and the slither of attraction that made her feel sick for weeks after. 

Behind her, she can feel Pippa waiting expectantly, and forces herself to turn back, to say through gritted teeth, 

“They don’t have all the facts. They have no idea what it’s like to—”

She stops, swallowing down the words, and Pippa narrows her eyes, folds her arms across her chest. “To what?”

Hecate’s eyes flicker to her students again, to Mildred and Maud and Enid, sitting at the dining table, pretending not to listen. There are a few others still chatting, but she can tell that most are hanging on to their every word, and it makes her bristle. 

“Not here,” she grounds out, and turns on her heel, not waiting for Pippa as she marches down the hall to their room.  Pippa huffs behind her, but follows, and as soon as the door is closed, starts, 

“I just don’t see what the big deal is.”

“Of course you don’t,” Hecate snaps. The dryad shifts in her arms, looking up at her, almost concerned. 

“Then explain it to me.”

“I shouldn’t have to. You should take me at my word that this is neither the time nor the place—”

“Why? Because you’re a better witch than I am?”

Hecate blinks in surprise. “I never said—”

“You imply it constantly. With your rigid adherence to traditionalism and your obvious disdain for anything modern—”

Hecate’s head hurts. “This has nothing to do with—”

“But you always think you’re right,” Pippa says. “Even in school, you never even entertained the possibility that someone else could be just as smart as you are.”

Hecate recoils, snaps back, “Given the tenor of his argument I was apparently correct in my assumption.”

Pippa flinches, hard, but when she looks back her eyes are steel. “This isn’t a one-woman show. You have to at least take what I say into consideration before you outright dismiss it. I’m the one who speaks her language. I’m the one who can communicate with her, and frankly, I don’t need your approval.”

Pippa takes a single step forward, and Hecate can’t help it. Her hand shoots out, freezing Pippa in place. “ _ Don’t. _ ” Her voice cracks and Pippa’s eyes widen in surprise, narrow in anger. 

“Let go of me.”

Hecate’s hand trembles, and she can feel the dryad tense, feel the small creature cling that much tighter. “Don’t touch her.”

“You are not in charge.”

It spark something in her, something low and sinister in her magic, and she arches an eyebrow, continues to hold Pippa where she stands. “It would appear I am.” 

Pippa nearly snarls. “Let go of me, Hecate. Let go right now.” 

Pippa’s magic pushes back, but Hecate is stronger. Has always been stronger—not better, but different, disciplined, in a way Pippa never was. 

Never had to be. 

Never anyone looming over her shoulder, waiting for her to falter. 

“Hecate,” Pippa says again, pushing at the boundaries of Hecate’s magic, but it does no good, and for the first time, Pippa looks afraid. 

Afraid of her magic. 

Afraid of  _ her.  _

Hecate drops the spell and takes a step back, feels her muscles trembling and her skin itch and her eyes sting. Her heart pounds in her chest, so loud she wonders if Pippa can hear it. It sounds like  _ I’m sorry _ , over and over again.  _ I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry _ .   
  
Pippa doesn’t move, even though she can. She stares, and licks her lips. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t be furious with you right now.” 

There isn’t one. Hecate knows there isn’t one. 

The dryad coos softly, confused. 

The silence stretches, and Hecate looks away, looks at the floor, ashamed and embarrassed and angry at herself, at Pippa, at everyone and everything and she feels it in her bones, feels it closing in on her like ice.

“Please, just—let her go.” 

Pippa watches her for a few moments more, then tilts her chin up. “Fine,” she snaps. “Whatever you say.” 

There’s relief, but it’s pained, even as Pippa gently converses with the dryad. She finds out where she got separated from her family, where to take her to reunite with them. It’s deep in the forest, a long way from the cabin.

“I’ll take her,” Hecate says. 

Pippa glances out the window. “If you walk, you won’t make it back before nightfall.” 

“I’ll walk there and transfer back.”

Pippa sniffs. “Fine,” she says again, and Hecate winces, but she wastes no time, slipping out of the room and out of the cabin, ignores the questioning eyes of the students. Pippa can deal with them. Right now her only focus is getting the dryad home safely. 

\--

It’s over an hour before she reaches the area the dryad spoke of, a clearing on the other side of the lake. Though Hecate doesn’t see anything, she becomes restless in her arms, squirming to be put down. Hecate sets her gently on the forest floor, and she toddles quickly towards a tree, sweet, high voice loud in the clearing. After a moment, there’s another sound, a bit lower, and then another, and another, all answering, all calling out to her. 

When she reaches the edge of the clearing, she looks back, smiles, and disappears into the brush, camouflaged against the trees. 

The voices begin to fade, and Hecate presumes they’re crawling deeper and deeper into the woods. 

It makes her feel less tense, to know that her charge is safe and back where she’s supposed to be; but there’s still a weight to her step, a heaviness on her shoulders, and she knows she’ll have to explain. Knows Pippa deserves an explanation for her behavior, and the thought of being truly honest, of telling her all the things she hasn’t been able to for the past term, makes her wary. 

She walks a ways back, trying to gather her thoughts. Trying to think of what to say, of how to apologize, of how to say what she needs to say without giving too much away. Without leaving herself vulnerable to Pippa’s ire or Pippa’s disappointment or Pippa’s condemnation. 

Part of her, some small part of her, knows that won’t be the case. Knows that once Pippa realizes, she’ll understand. She’ll forgive. 

But she isn’t used to forgiveness. Isn’t used to apology. 

Her head hurts and her shoulder aches from holding the dryad so long, and it’s getting dark far too quickly. She tries to find her way, regardless, doesn’t want to return to the cabin until she absolutely has to; but the brush is thick and it’s too dark, the moon shielded by the canopy. 

With a sigh, she relents, and transfers back to camp. 

Pippa is sitting in the living room by the fire, staring silently, and she doesn’t look up when Hecate comes in. She says nothing, and Hecate swallows, and slips past her down the hall. 

It isn’t that late, but the students are all inside, in bed. She checks her wards and sticks her head in each room, just to ensure everyone is where they’re meant to be. Most aren’t asleep, and look at her curiously as she briskly informs them that lights should be out in an hour. 

They don’t argue, and it isn’t until she’s made her rounds and spent a moment leaning against the wall in the hallway that she dares go back to the living room. Dares to cross the space and stand nervously at the edge of the sofa, hands fidgeting at her sides. 

“Well?”

Hecate rubs her fingers together and speaks softly, almost timid. “She’s back with her family.”

“Good.”

Pippa doesn’t look at her, continues staring into the fire, and Hecate feels panicked, feels desperate, feels, not for the first time, utterly alone. 

The silence reminds her too much of when they weren’t speaking, when all the words were said across vast spaces, with only a look.

But Pippa isn’t even looking at her now, staring blankly off into the fire, and it takes all her courage to summon the careful, quiet, “Are you alright?”

Pippa turns toward her finally, her eyes wide and wet and Hecate almost wishes she hadn’t. 

“You scared me.”

Hecate’s stomach turns over, and she places her hand flat on her abdomen. “I—” she starts, stops, takes a breath. “I am truly sorry.” 

Pippa nods. “Can you at least tell me why?” 

Hecate hesitates, then slowly sits on the edge of the sofa, as far from Pippa as she can, careful not to startle her, to put a safe amount of distance between them. 

She doesn’t know what to say, how to even begin to explain. She knows she must, but the words feel trapped in her throat, ill-formed and useless.

There’s somehow too much and not enough she can say. No excuse she can make, and yet, at the same time, so much Pippa doesn’t know. So much she doesn’t understand, and it presses down on her, confuses her. She doesn’t know which story to tell, which experience will make her behavior palatable, if any at all. 

But she thinks of the dryad, frightened and alone. Thinks of herself, so often of late, frightened and alone and bound to someone else’s will. She thinks of love potions and personality potions and paintings and Miss Broomhead and her father and ice and she feels her eyes well up, her throat close. 

She tries to breathe, but the air feels dense, feels cold, and she shudders despite the warmth from the fire. 

“Hecate?”

She tries, but she can’t form words, can’t articulate anything, the pounding in her head and her chest too loud, Pippa’s expression too expectant. She tries, she tries so hard, but she doesn’t know where to start, doesn’t know how to say any of it. Doesn’t know what good it would do if she could. 

Pippa waits, silent, hopeful, for a long while. Long enough for the fire to die down. Long enough for the cold to seep in from outside. 

When Hecate says nothing, she sighs, and rises to her feet. 

“I’m going to bed,” she says. “I’ll see you in the morning.” 

Hecate nods, though she wants desperately to catch her hand. To stop her from leaving. But she doesn’t know what she’d do if Pippa stayed. What she could possibly ask for. 

Pippa hesitates, but when Hecate remains quiet, she leaves, disappears down the hallway. She leaves the door to their room just slightly ajar, but Hecate doesn’t join her. 

She passes the night in the living room, staring into the fire. 

\--

It’s half gone midnight when there’s a shout from down the hall. Something crashes to the ground, a light flicks on, and Hecate transfers to the room in seconds, throwing open the door. 

The condemnation dies in her throat when she sees Maud, back pressed against the wall, and Mildred at her side, a reassuring hand on her arm. 

“There’s something in here,” Maud says, her voice shaking.  

Hecate glances around the room, sees nothing, feels nothing, her magic calm and steady even as her heart skips. 

Mildred shakes her head. “It’s okay, it was just a nightmare.” 

Maud shakes her head almost violently, clutching Mildred’s hand. “Something touched me. Something—”

Waving her hand, Hecate winds a revealing spell around the room, searching out corners and under the beds and every drawer. 

“There is nothing here,” she says, just as she feels Pippa’s presence behind her. 

“What’s wrong, girls?” 

Maud looks embarrassed, staring at the floor, and Mildred looks Hecate dead in the eye when she says, almost accusatory, “She’s afraid of the dark.” 

“Oh, poor thing,” Pippa murmurs, crossing the room to crouch in front of Maud. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Why didn’t you say anything?” 

Mildred works her jaw for a moment, as if wrestling with herself, trying to keep quiet. But the words spill out as she wraps an arm around Maud’s shoulders. “We tried.”

Hecate’s stomach drops. 

Pippa stills, neck turned as if she wants to look back over her shoulder, wants to see Hecate’s face, but she doesn’t. Instead, she pats Maud’s hand. “Why don’t you girls sleep with the light from now on. Would that help?” 

Maud’s eyes flicker to Hecate nervously, and it’s all she can do to give the barest nod. 

“Thanks, Miss Pentangle,” Maud says, looking back at her. “Sorry about—”

Pippa shushes her. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” She stands, and squeezes Mildred’s shoulder. “Try to get some rest,” she says. 

She turns, and her eyes meet Hecate’s, narrowed and cold. She slips past her without a word, and Hecate’s skin chills. 

“Sorry, Miss Hardbroom. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Hecate swallows tightly. “No matter. Go to sleep.”

She pulls the door shut, but doesn’t move, stares at the wood surface. She can hear Mildred’s muffled voice, urging Maud back to bed. Hears the comfort in her tone, the protectiveness, and thinks of Pippa. 

Thinks of nights spent in Pippa’s room, during thunderstorms. Thinks of the silencing spell she used to put on the room, to keep the noise out. Thinks of Pippa’s hand clutched in hers as she buried her face in Hecate’s shoulder. 

She thinks of her father, locking the door to her room at night, trapping her inside. 

She was never allowed a light. 

Fear of the dark was a weakness, one to conquer by immersion, and sometimes she forgets. 

Forgets what it means to be kind. 

Feeling sick, Hecate transfers to the bathroom and braces her hands against the sink, feels her stomach heave and her chest tighten. Squeezes her eyes shut and sees the look of terror on Maud’s face, the anger on Mildred’s. 

The look of terror on her own face, huddled in her locked bedroom, staring into the silent dark. 


	3. and here you come / with a shield for a heart and a sword for a tongue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- see part one

She doesn’t sleep.

Slips into the bedroom in the early hours of the morning and retrieves the Wide Awake potion from her satchel, hopes it will at least keep her mind from fogging.

It doesn’t stop her from being irritable, from turning her anger at herself into snappishness at the students.

They give her a wide berth at breakfast, and she doesn’t blame them. Feels their eyes on her as she circles the camp, checking the wards.

Pippa is too bright, too cheery, and she knows that at least her girls are aware of the tension between them, thick and tired. Pippa barely says anything to her, other than going over the plans for the day.

The heat wave continues, worse than the day before, and the students beg for a trip to the lake. Pippa easily acquiesces, doesn’t ask Hecate for her opinion, and suggests keeping the group together for the day. Hecate doesn’t argue, even though she knows why. Knows it’s because Pippa doesn’t want to leave any of them alone with Hecate. Doesn’t trust her not to snap.

It’s humiliating and horrifying but she can’t say that Pippa’s wrong.

She doesn’t quite trust herself.

The Wide Awake potion makes her even more tense than usual, and she feels hyper focused with nothing to focus _on_ , and her magic itches under her skin. She knows she’ll need to release some of it, somehow, at some point.

But she’s afraid that if her magic calms, her mind will go with it, and it’s always worse in the quiet.

It doesn’t help that Pippa keeps glancing back at her from the head of the group, that she looks like she wants to say something but doesn’t know how. Hecate doesn’t know either, but as they head toward the water, she wonders if there’s any way for her to make it right.

The students brighten the moment the lake comes into view, and Enid and Nawal and Matthew take off at a run, Pippa hollering at them to be careful. Hecate watches with some disdain—and some amusement—as they barrel into the water, only to immediately retreat, shrieking at the cold.

The other students are more cautious, but eventually they all wander in, swimming and splashing around. Hecate doesn’t quite understand what’s so appealing about the whole thing, but she keeps to herself on the shore, a safe distance from Pippa, who’s sat on the edge of the small pier, her legs dangling in the water. She’s donned a bathing costume under her shorts, a modest one-piece that covers most of her chest and neck, but leaves her back bare, and Hecate tries not to stare at the smooth skin, the wings of her shoulders.

Tries to bury the desire to touch.

Dylan sits next to Pippa, cross-legged and fully dressed, but they’re laughing; Pippa shows them how to create small waves, and they grin, splashing their friends from the safety of land.

It isn’t long before Nawal climbs out, shivering, and looks up at Hecate nervously. “I forgot a towel,” she says. “Could you…?”

Hecate rolls her eyes, but dries her easily, and Nawal’s shoulders relax, her smile broadening. “Thanks, Miss Hardbroom,” she says, scampering off to sit next to Dylan. Pippa transfers away, and Hecate frowns a moment until she reappears a bit further down shore.

Hecate understands her need for a moment of quiet, and keeps one eye on the students, one on Pippa as she wades a few feet into the lake. Even from a distance, Hecate can see her shoulders drop, her head tilt down, and it knots uncomfortably in Hecate’s chest, her posture, the defeated line of her back. She looks tired, and sad, and Hecate knows she’s part of the reason. She wants to go to her, wants to say something that will make it right, but she still hasn’t found the words. Can’t think of what would ease the strain between them.

The truth, maybe, but she isn’t even convinced of that.

She thinks of the look on Pippa’s face the night before, her horror, and swallows the acrid taste in her throat.

She used to look at Miss Broomhead that way. Knows that no matter how much she tried to school her features, to pretend, there was always that hint of fear, of terror, at what would come next.

Consequences, Broomhead called them.

As she’s gotten older, she’s come to understand them for what they really were: punishments.

Deserved or otherwise, she knows for a fact she would never do to a student what Broomhead did to her. Knows that no matter how much she tries to pretend Broomhead was merely strict, that her methods were merely unorthodox, Hecate would never, ever use such tactics on her own students. No matter how many mistakes, no matter what trouble they caused.

She thinks of Enid, of her pranks and disregard for authority.

Thinks of what would happen to someone like Enid, under Broomhead’s control.

It makes her shudder.

Makes her take a few slow, deep breaths to calm the quick pick-up of her heart.

Glancing away from the group, she looks at Pippa again, staring off into the distance, a smudge of pink against the blue, and despite herself, she feels better. That Pippa is here. That Broomhead is not. That those days are long gone.

A few students, including Mildred and Maud, wander over to Pippa, and she smiles brightly at them. If she’s annoyed at having her momentary peace broken, she doesn’t show it. She laughs, talks with them, splashes back good naturedly when Archie accidentally sends a wave in her direction.

When she retreats to the shore, only Mildred follows, and Hecate watches them carefully out of the corner of her eye, their body language. She can’t hear what they’re saying, but after a moment, Pippa looks up, looks right at her, and Hecate feels her stomach clench.

Pippa looks back at Mildred, and after another minute, presses a hand to her mouth.

She knows.

Hecate knows she knows, knows by the way Mildred keeps sneaking furtive glances at her that she’s said something, though Hecate doesn’t know exactly what, and it isn’t long before Mildred slips back into the water, and Pippa slowly makes her way toward Hecate, her expression pained.

Hecate tenses, tries not to, but her legs feel like lead and her head hurts, too many hours without sleep, too many bottles of Wide Awake, too much tension in her neck and shoulders.

“Hecate,” Pippa starts, but there’s pity in her voice that Hecate doesn’t want, can’t stand, and she looks away.

“We should return to the cabin,” she says stiffly. “The students will be hungry soon.”

“Hecate—”

She ignores Pippa’s pleading, steps forwards and barks for the students to return to shore. They grumble and whine but follow her instructions, soon too distracted by the promise of food and drying off to complain.

Lunch is a disaster.

Mildred somehow manages to burn everything except the beans, Maud drops no less than three plates, and the clean up crew whines incessantly.

“It isn’t fair that I should have to clean up her mess,” Ethel says, glaring at Mildred.

Pippa tries to intervene, stern yet understanding, but it’s Hecate’s sharp, “Do as you are told, Miss Hallow” that finally silences Ethel’s protests. Ethel looks a bit surprised, almost shaken, and Mildred looks at Hecate in shock before she adds, “And since you are responsible for this...mistake, you will assist.”

Mildred sighs, but nods, and Hecate leaves them bickering in the kitchen. She knows Mildred will do most of the work, that Ethel will merely watch, will even hinder her efforts; but she’s too tired and wrung out to care about their petty feud.

Their trip isn’t even halfway over yet, and every part of her is exhausted. She wants to sleep, wants to be back at Cackle’s in her own bed, in her own room, alone. The way she’s meant to be.

She tries to catch a few minutes to herself, slipping down the hall into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. She just needs a chance to settle, to recalibrate, but she’s barely gone two minutes when there’s a knock, and Pippa peers around the door.

“May I come in?”

Hecate nods, but braces herself. Stands straight and stiff, hands by her sides.

“What do you need?”

Pippa blinks. “I—nothing. I just, I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“I’m fine.”

Pippa sighs. “Are you, really?”

Hecate doesn’t answer, and Pippa takes a step closer, closes the door behind her.

“I heard what Dylan said yesterday. I wasn’t sure what they meant, at first.”

Hecate tenses, nails digging into her palms.

“A new nickname,” Hecate says, the lie heavy on her tongue. “Nothing of note.”

Pippa narrows her eyes. “I think a personality changing potion would be of significant note,” she says, waiting, expectant.

Hecate swallows and stares at a point on the wall over her shoulder.

“It was an accident.”

“No, it wasn’t. Mildred told me.”

Hecate’s anger flares. “That girl will never learn to mind her business—”

“She’s worried about you, and frankly so am I. Potions like that can have terrible fall out.” When Hecate says nothing, Pippa softens her voice, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, to look up at her. “When did this happen?”

She thinks about lying, about changing the subject, about transferring away, but before she can do anything, she finds herself admitting, “Fall term. Just before Halloween.”

Pippa’s eyes widen. “That was months ago. Why didn’t you tell me?”

 _I didn’t know how,_  she thinks, says instead,

“It was none of your concern.”

“How can you say that? Of course it concerns me. What you went through—"

“Is irrelevant,” Hecate interrupts, a slowly bubbling panic in her gut. She doesn’t want this conversation, not here, not now, not at all. “It’s over.  They learned their lesson well enough.”

“Did they? It seems to me they got off fairly easy.”

Hecate isn’t certain who Pippa’s talking about or how much Pippa knows, and she feels backed into a corner, feels like there’s no way out. She narrows her eyes and folds her arms across her chest. “You are in no position to ridicule the way I discipline my students—“

Pippa holds up a placating hand. “I’m not ridiculing you, Hecate, I’m—I’m saying, for once, I would have punished them more. If they’d done to one of my teachers what they did to you. Why didn’t Ada—“

The defense is out of her mouth before she even thinks about it. “Ada doesn’t know. Besides which, she’s had enough on her plate without—“

“Without what? Supporting her deputy? Doing her due diligence as a headmistress?”

Hecate’s heart pounds and she feels almost lightheaded, detached. “Do not presume to know how Miss Cackle runs her school or what actions she does or does not take.”

“I’m not—I’m not trying to condemn her, Hecate,” Pippa says gently, and at Hecate’s unconvinced expression, adds firmly, “I’m _not_. I’m just concerned.”

She knows it isn’t fair, but Pippa is getting too close to home, to thoughts Hecate has done her best to bury and the words are snide, accusatory, “The last time you were concerned you endeavored to take Ada’s position. Why should I believe—"

“Because I’m your friend. Because—because you matter more to me than—because I’m not looking at it as a headmistress,” Pippa says, standing up to meet her gaze. “I’m looking at it as someone who—who cares about you. And I’m sorry, but it makes me— _furious_ that this happened. That this was _allowed_ to happen, that you—that you went through it alone. I just… I wish you’d told me,” she says, her voice soft, regretful but not disappointed, not in Hecate. “I wish I could have helped.”

Hecate clenches her jaw, holds in the sharp retort on the tip of her tongue because she doesn’t mean it, not this time. Pippa is staring at her with wide, slightly wet eyes, looking at her almost imploringly. She wants something, Hecate knows, but isn’t entirely sure what it is. What she could possibly have to give Pippa that would erase the tired, heartbroken expression from her face.

She doesn’t look furious, but the words ring in Hecate’s head, and it confuses her, why Pippa would be angry on her behalf. Why she would matter at all. Why she would help, or even what good it would have done. She couldn’t have stopped it, and Hecate doesn’t understand what she could have done in the aftermath to lessen the weight she’s been carrying around her chest.

“How.”

“What?”

She clears her throat, her mouth parched. “How would you have helped?”

Pippa frowns for a moment, contemplating, then says slowly, “I don’t know. Been there for you, I suppose. Listened. Let you know that it wasn’t your fault. That you didn’t deserve it.”

Hecate’s eyes widen, tears pricking at the corners as the words settle.

 _You didn’t deserve it_.

She doesn’t know if that’s true, but she also hadn’t realized how badly she’d needed to hear it. For someone else to tell her it was wrong.

She purses her lips, tries to keep her expression under control but she can feel herself cracking, and turns away.

“This is a pointless conversation,” she snaps, though her voice wavers more than she’d like. “It happened. It was handled. I fail to see the use in revisiting the subject.”

Pippa’s silent for a long moment, and Hecate can’t bear to look at her. Doesn’t want to see her expression, whatever it may be.

When she speaks finally, her voice is so soft. “Is that why you were so adamant yesterday, about the dryad?”

Hecate stills.

“What would that have to do with anything?”

“You tell me,” she says gently, more a question than a command, and Hecate swallows. Thinks of the small girl on her arm, the way she’d clung to Hecate, the trust she’d shown so quickly.

Thinks of her own ability to trust, ripped to shreds.

It used to be that she trusted Ada implicitly, in everything. Trusted her fellow colleagues, even trusted her students. But after the last year, she isn’t certain any more. What they keep from her. What they hide.

And it hurts.

Knots in her chest and stays there and she hates it. Hates that every interaction she has now at Cackle’s is tainted with it. Hates that every time Ada and Dimity exchange a glance, she feels her muscles tense. Hates that she feels the need to keep an eye on all her students’ potions at all times. That she doesn’t want to test them any longer. That every time she does, it could change her. Force her to become someone else—someone in love with a man, someone funnier or lighter or kinder.  Someone who doesn’t care.

Because she didn’t. Remembers how it felt, those few hours, to not care about anything but enjoyment and pleasure. She’d wanted to make potions because they were fun, not because they helped anyone. She’d wanted to dance because it was amusing, to watch the confusion on the others’ faces. But she hadn’t cared about the school. Hadn’t cared about the students or Miss Drill or even Ada, fighting for her job, her life, and all the while she wanted to stop. Wanted to slow down, wanted to not be doing whatever she was doing. A part of her wanted to scream, but she couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t stop the flood of hormones in her veins of the artificial desire for Algernon; couldn’t stop herself from trying to give flowers to Miss Doomstone. Watched as everything crumbled around her, and she was powerless.

She’s not sure she trusts anyone anymore, least of all herself.

But Pippa… Pippa is still there. Still waiting, quiet and patient. Pippa, who never betrayed her, not even as a teenager. Who never made fun of her to fit in with the others, who rather defended her every time. Pippa, who’s made overture after overture this year, inviting her for tea, always checking in to see how things are going, always warm, always kind. Even after everything Hecate has done, or hasn’t done.

She deserves the truth, or part of it anyway, and Hecate takes a slow breath, says carefully.  “I didn’t want her to feel trapped. To be forced to do something she was not… comfortable with.” She works her jaw a moment, then adds, almost glibly, “It appears I was projecting.”

Pippa nods like she understands, takes a moment, then asks somewhat nervously, “Do you—some potions cause amnesia after the fact. Did you—“

“I remember.”

Pippa’s hopeful expression falls, and Hecate knows how she feels. Wishes, sometimes, that she couldn’t remember. Wishes it were all a blank. It would certainly be easier.

“I wish you could have told me that,” Pippa says, but there’s no condemnation in her voice, no blame. “I would have understood. I would have agreed with you, if I’d known that’s what you were worried about. If I’d know it would be that upsetting to you I never would have suggested it in the first place.”

“You were right.”

“No, I wasn’t. And I’m sorry I pushed you.”

Hecate flinches at the apology, doesn’t want it, doesn’t deserve it. “I did worse.”

Pippa shakes her head, a small smile lifting her lips. “I forgive you.”

Hecate’s eyes snap to hers in surprise, and Pippa almost laughs, a fond, quiet sound that makes Hecate’s heart catch.

“Pippa—”

“I don’t mean to bring up old wounds, but…” She takes a deep breath, looks Hecate square in the eye when she says, “The worst thing you could ever do is leave, and you’ve already done that. And I’ve already forgiven you for that, too. Though I do hope someday you’ll tell me why.”

Hecate’s eyes well, her hands tremble and her heart curls inside itself, terrified and overwhelmed and relieved, desperately relieved, and ashamed, and above all, shocked, almost unwilling to believe. That of all the things Hecate has done, the worst was not being there at all.

“Pippa…“ she tries, but her voice catches, and Pippa smiles tremulously, admits,

“I don’t think there’s anything you could do that I wouldn’t forgive.”

Everything feels fractured and unsteady, and Hecate’s voice shakes when she says, “You shouldn’t be that generous.”

Pippa sighs, but she’s smiling, and steps forward, grasping both of Hecate’s hands in hers.

“I know you’re a stubborn witch,” she says fondly, “so I’ll say this as many times as you need: you’re my best friend, Hecate. You always have been, always will be.”

This time, the “ _Why?_ ” tumbles off her tongue before she can stop it, and Pippa softens even further.

“Because as long as we’ve been speaking, you’ve been there for me. Every silly drama when we were kids, every problem this last year, however small. You take care of me—sent me that care package when I was sick in February.”

Hecate bites her lip. “I wanted to come. I couldn’t—”

“I know. I know you would have, and that means everything to me. You—you see the world so differently from most people, and I don’t mean that in a bad way. You work so hard, care so much, and you always make me want to be better,” she says, squeezing Hecate’s hands. “The only time it’s difficult is when you hide from me.”

“But—”

Pippa interrupts her, and somehow knows what she was about to say, counters with, “I can handle our petty fights about the merits of modern magic and traditionalism and who’s the better chess player. What hurts is when you don’t talk to me.”

Hecate works her jaw for a moment, thoughts too many and too loud and she doesn’t know what to say, what’s right or needed in this moment; but Pippa is watching her, gaze open and vulnerable and an olive branch between them.

She’d be a fool not to take it.

“I… find it difficult,” she says, stilted but honest, and Pippa nods.

“All I ask is that you try,” she says softly. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, anything you aren’t comfortable with. I won’t ask for details. Just… tell me how you’re feeling, okay? Can you do that?”

Hecate nods, can’t quite find her voice, and Pippa seems to know, to realize, because she leans forward and busses a kiss to Hecate’s cheek before she moves away.

“And it’s me, obviously,” she says.

Hecate frowns, and Pippa smirks.

“I’m the better chess player.”

Hecate huffs, and rolls her eyes, feels some of the tension break, and does her best to smile. She’s certain it comes out strange, and a bit forced, but Pippa smiles back easily.

Hecate’s about to respond when there’s a knock on the door, and Nawal sticks her head in.

“Miss Pentangle? I’m sorry. I don’t mean to interrupt—”

Hecate resists the urge to roll her eyes as Pippa turns to her brightly. “That’s alright. What do you need?”

“Matthew fell out of a tree, Miss. He and Dylan were having a climbing contest, and I think he’s twisted his ankle.“ She pauses. “Again.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Nawal nods and slips away and Pippa turns back to Hecate with a roll of her eyes. “Wizards,” she bemoans.

Hecate nods, and Pippa stills for a moment, watching her seriously. “Are we okay?”

There’s anxiety there, and nerves and hope and Hecate doesn’t understand how she got so lucky. How, after all this time, _you’re my best friend._

She nods, and Pippa smiles, relieved, before disappearing.

Hecate waits a while longer, trying to get her emotions under some semblance of control. She feels drained, but better. Lighter. Not as on edge as she has been for most of the year. It isn’t perfect—she doesn’t quite know how to do calm, always feels some sort of tension in her shoulders, but she lets Pippa’s words sink into her skin:

_Always have been, always will be._

She wants to be worthy of it. Of Pippa’s seeming devotion, her friendship, her kindness.

Wants to be worthy of more than that, but she’ll take what she can get, and she’ll be better.

Taking a deep breath, Hecate transfers into the hallway near the living room, watches for a moment as some of the students study or chat or waste time playing board games. She sees Maud, Enid, and Mildred in the corner, all bent over books. Mildred and Enid are whispering back and forth, writing things down. But Maud barely moves, just the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders, and Hecate’s heart twinges.

Transfering to the other side of the room, she barely blinks when Mildred and Enid start, Mildred’s book slipping from her grasp to the floor with a loud thud.

“These tomes are rare and expensive,” she says. “See to it that you care for them.”

Mildred nods. “Sorry, Miss Hardbroom.”

Hecate nods, and looks at Maud, still asleep. “Miss Spellbody.”

She doesn’t stir, and Enid elbows her in the arm. “Maud, wake up.”

She mumbles something and stirs, and when she sits up, her glasses are eskew on her nose.

“What’s happening?” Maud mumbles, and Enid gives her a knowing look and points up. Maud’s eyes widen and she slowly lifts her head to look at Hecate, gulping as she fixes her glasses and clutches her book.

“Come with me,” Hecate says, turns on her heel, and moves back toward the hall. She hears Maud scramble behind her, but doesn’t turn until she reaches Mildred and Maud’s bedroom, and opens the door for Maud to pass in.

Maud bites her lip, apologies spilling from her lips before Hecate can say a word. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep, Miss Hardbroom, I swear—and I did get some work done, I just—”

“Sit,” Hecate says, pointing to one of the twin beds.

Maud sits, and Hecate rolls her eyes and magics the blankets so the other bed is neatly made before she sits as well.

“You understand the basic principles of conjuring spells, correct?”

Maud frowns, confused. “I think so. We covered them in spell science but we haven’t actually conjured anything yet. We’re supposed to learn summoning first.”

Hecate nods, aware of where they are in the curriculum. She spends a few minutes quizzing her about what she remembers, the specifics of conjuring, just to make sure. When she’s satisfied Maud understands, she instructs her to hold out both her hands.

“Conjuring requires complete focus on the object you desire. You are not merely transferring it from one location to another, you are manifesting it from the magic around you, and the magic within you. One mistake, and the item you conjure will be incorrect or incomplete.”

Maud swallows. “My aunt tried to conjure a mouse, once. It wasn’t pretty.”

“Manifesting living creatures is against The Code, which I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Yes,” Maud says quickly. “I wouldn’t—”

“I know,” Hecate interrupts gently.

Maud bites her lip for a moment. “Is there something you wanted me to conjure, Miss Hardbroom?”

“A pin, if you please. Like this one.”

Hecate opens her hand, easily manifesting a silver hair pin. Maud frowns, but takes a deep breath and closes her eyes tightly, focusing.

It takes her a few tries, but eventually she manages it, a slightly lopsided but fully functional hair pin. She grins, looking up at Hecate eagerly. “I did it!”

Hecate nods. “Very good. Now, I want you to do the same thing, but conjure a light.”

“A light? What kind of light?”

“Just light. Not a candle, or a lamp. Think about what light is, what it feels like, and create it.”

Maud frowns, but nods, squeezing her eyes shut again. It takes her longer, but Hecate sits patiently, pleased that each attempt gets closer and closer, until at last, Maud opens her eyes to a small ball of light, hovering over her hand.

“Like that?”

Hecate nods. “Exactly like that.”

She has Maud put the light out, then conjure it a few more times for practice, until Maud can easily shut her eyes and say a spell, and a small light will appear in her hand.

“With practice, you’ll be able to control the intensity and size of the light, but for now, this is all you need.”

Maud frowns, looking up at her curiously. “For what, Miss Hardbroom?”

Hecate doesn’t quite meet her gaze when she says stiffly, “You’ll never have to be afraid of the dark again.”

Maud flushes, opening her mouth to deny it, Hecate thinks; but she arches an eyebrow and Maud falls silent. After a moment, a wide smile breaks across her face, and for a moment, she looks like she might hug her. Thankfully she doesn’t, just bounces slightly.

“Thank you, Miss Hardbroom,” she says, blinking up at her with wide eyes.

Hecate nods.

“I’m trusting you with this knowledge ahead of your classmates, Miss Spellbody,” she warns. “Under no circumstance are you to attempt to teach anyone else. _Especially_ Miss Hubble. Understood?”

Maud looks a bit chagrined, but she nods. “I promise I won’t.”

“Good. Now go.”

Maud jumps up, pauses, then grins up at her. “Thank you again, Miss Hardbroom.”

Hecate shoos her away, biting down a smile as she runs through the halls, calling for Mildred. She follows at a slower pace, watching from the hall as Maud excitedly explains what she’s just learned, Enid demands to know how to do it, and Mildred grins.

She doesn’t entirely trust Maud not to share what she’s learned, but she knows that if they use a conjuring spell, however annoying the fallout, their intentions will be sound. Even Enid, who drives her mad most days, has never done anything maliciously. Never with the intent to harm.

Certain the students inside are doing (mostly) what they’re supposed to be doing, Hecate transfers outside, and finds Matthew sitting on a log with his leg stretched out, foot at an odd angle, Dylan looking a bit indignant, and Nawal rolling her eyes.  

She’s certain Pippa can handle it, and is about to go back indoors when Pippa waves her over. She transfers, making Pippa jump slightly at her sudden presence, and she gives Hecate a weak glare.

Hecate smirks, and Pippa rolls her eyes before turning back to Matthew.

“It’s broken,” Pippa says, and at Hecate’s unsure expression, adds with a shrug, “You were always better at healing spells.”

Hecate nods—potions and spell science were always her domain, while chanting and flying were always Pippa’s—and holds out her hand over Matthew’s ankle. Her magic is calmer than it’s been in weeks, and summoning it is easy as breathing. There’s a soft yellow light that curls around Matthew’s ankle, and he winces.

“It should be uncomfortable but painless,” Hecate says, and he nods, watching rather avidly as the visual manifestation of the spell sinks into his skin.

It’s over in a matter of moments, and he rolls his ankle to test it. “Wow,” he says, looking up at Hecate with a grin. “That was so cool.”

Hecate sighs. “I truly despair for the future.”

Pippa laughs, the sound bright and delicate and utterly beautiful. Hecate can’t help but stare, at the line of her neck, her jaw, the soft evening light on her hair. Her heart seems to trip and stumble and fall at Pippa’s feet, though in reality, Hecate knows it’s never been anywhere else.

\--

She transfers into their bedroom, sentence halfway out of her mouth, “We really should find something more productive for our pupils than board games and tarot read—” but when she looks up, Pippa is half undressed, wrapped in only in a towel, twisted around toward the mirror.

Hecate’s mouth goes dry, her tongue heavy as her eyes catch on all the exposed skin, the line of her legs, her shoulders, her back.

Pippa startles, but breathes out a sigh of relief even as she gives Hecate a scolding glare. “I hate when you do that,” she says, seems completely unfazed while Hecate stares, and tries to get her brain to do something, anything.

“I—” she starts, stalls; stares at Pippa’s collarbone and curls her hands into fists at her sides to keep from reaching out, the desire to touch so strong, a wave that passes through her and doesn’t relent until she sees what Pippa had been looking at—her back, burnt bright red.

Pippa catches Hecate’s eyes in the mirror and purses her lips. “That will teach me to go out without sun lotion,” she huffs, wincing as she prods delicately at her shoulder.

Hecate swallows, desire circumvented only by her concern. “I have a healing salve,” she manages. “If that would…”

Pippa smiles. “That would be lovely.”

Hecate nods, and quickly turns toward her bag, completely forgets to summon the item in her haste to look at something, anything besides Pippa, the line of her throat, her still-damp hair clinging to her skin.

When she turns back, she hopes Pippa will be dressed—covered head to toe, if she had her way—but she isn’t. Instead, she’s sat on the edge of the bed, still in her towel, a nervous, hopeful expression on her face.

“Would you mind? I can’t quite reach.”

Hecate freezes for a moment, her thoughts wild like alarm bells before she shakes herself and nods. She sits next to Pippa gingerly, stiff and yet wholly unprepared for the way Pippa turns, lets the towel fall loose behind her, exposing most of her back and shoulders. Her skin is reddest at the top, a thin pale line betraying her earlier swimming costume, and Hecate winces in sympathy, opens the jar and scoops a small handful of the salve onto her fingertips.

“It may sting,” she warns, and Pippa nods, and it takes Hecate a moment to center herself, hands hovering over Pippa’s spine. She doesn’t want to hurt her, does want to touch, doesn’t want to make a fool of herself, does want to feel Pippa’s skin beneath her palms, doesn’t want Pippa to know.

 _Foolish girl_ , she hears in her head, and shakes herself, gently smoothing the cream into Pippa’s skin, just below her neck. Pippa hisses, shoulders jerking slightly. Hecate pulls back.

“Are you alright?”

Pippa nods. “Yeah. Just—you weren’t kidding.”

Hecate huffs and carefully resumes her motion, rubbing the salve over Pippa’s shoulders.

“I rarely do.”

“That’s alright,” Pippa says, “You’re funny in other ways.”

Hecate hums noncommittally. “I’ve been called many things; funny has never been one of them.”

“Well, it’s true,” Pippa says. “You’ve a delightful sense of humor.”

_You know Miss Hardbroom—she has many strengths, humor is not one._

Hecate flinches, feels a chill run down her spine, and forces herself to stay in the present.

“You can remind the parents of that the next time they’re lodging a complaint with my headmistress.”

Pippa chuckles. “I never said your sense of humor was for everyone,” she teases, and Hecate rolls her eyes, tries to focus on keeping her touch light, but clinical. Tries not to stay too long in one place, or touch too reverently.

But Pippa seems in no hurry to move, relaying a story she overheard the girls tell, speculating on the trouble Enid and Nawal will get up to should they remain friends. She talks about Mildred’s drawings, how beautiful they are, and Hecate finds herself nodding, a mild,

“So long as they don’t distract from her studies.”

Pippa shakes her head with a smile. “I think Mildred’s distracted by far more than just drawings.”

“I’m rather aware of that,” Hecate says dryly, but she hesitates, isn’t quite certain she should bring it up, again; but she feels safe here, feels, at least for the moment, alright with being open, so she takes a breath and asks quietly,

“Did she tell you about the other potion as well?”

“Other potion? No,” Pippa says, genuine surprise coloring her tone. “What happened?”

Hecate clears her throat, tries to keep her voice level. “Mildred and Miss Nightshade took it upon themselves to mend a rift between Algernon and Gwen. They accidentally spiked the faculty punch with a love potion.”

Pippa gasps. “The whole faculty?”

“It affected everyone but Ada, who managed to put things to rights.”

“But you…?”

Hecate nods, focuses on smoothing the cream along Pippa’s shoulders. “It was an...unfortunate afternoon.”

Pippa nods. “I can imagine,” she says quietly, then, after a pause, “It happened to me once, too. When I was in college.” At Hecate’s silent questioning, she takes a breath, continues, “One of the wizards in my year drugged my drink at a party.”

Hecate clenches her teeth, anger bubbling under her skin. “What happened?”

“One of my friends noticed, thankfully. Managed to get me away from him and brew an antidote.” Hecate can hear the forced smile in her words. “It could have been a lot worse. I still had nightmares for months,” she confesses, and Hecate nods, rubs the salve along her back and hopes it helps, her touch.

“I understand.”

“I know you do,” Pippa says, then falls quiet for a long moment. Hecate continues addressing her sunburnt skin, though there’s really no more need—she’s covered the area once, and that’s enough. But Pippa’s skin is warm and soft under her hands, and it seems to be relaxing her somewhat, the gentle circles and wide sweeps of Hecate’s hands.

“We have a lot to catch up on, don’t we?” she asks finally. “Good and bad.”

Hecate swallows tightly. “We do.”

“And...we will, won’t we?”

Her voice is timid, nervous in a way Hecate isn’t used to hearing, and she pauses, struggling with an answer. Pippa turns over her shoulder and looks back at her, eyes wide and hopeful, and it’s all Hecate can do to nod, to promise softly,

“We will.”

Pippa smiles—a bit strangled, a bit broken—but she lays a hand on Hecate’s knee and squeezes before she turns back around, and Hecate continues rubbing the salve along her spine.

She thinks for a moment, then broaches cautiously, “How did you come to learn the dryad’s language? You never mentioned.”

Pippa laughs softly and tells her about her course load in college, the way she’d put off her foreign language requirement, how “Languages of Magical Creatures” was the only one that fit into her schedule by the time she got around to it. She tells her about her professor, a old, old wizard with a penchant for waxing poetic or falling asleep; how she’d passed, but not as well as she’d have liked, and resented for years the only ding in her otherwise perfect grades.

“And I suppose you graduated will full marks in everything,” she teases, and Hecate tries her best to smile, but doesn’t quite manage it.

“Yes,” she admits, “But it wasn’t—”

She doesn’t know what to say. How to tell Pippa it nearly wasn’t by choice. How to tell Pippa that it nearly destroyed her, those years.

Pippa looks back at her, and Hecate shrugs, settles on, “I didn’t have much else to do.”

Pippa looks at her curiously. “You stopped flying?”

“Not entirely,” she says, and thinks of Broomhead’s training, of her insistence on perfect technique. “But not like we did. It was a—means to an end.”

“Oh,” Pippa says, almost sadly. “You were so wonderful at it. I thought maybe you’d continued in college.”

Hecate shakes her head. “I doubt I would have regardless. It reminded me too much of—”

She stops, holds her breath, her hand stilling on Pippa’s shoulders.

But Pippa merely smiles gently. “Me too,” she admits. Then, after a moment adds, “I joined the choir instead,” she says, face slightly flushed. “I wasn’t very good.”

Hecate snorts delicately. “Yes, I’m certain the director gave you all those solos because you were terrible.”

The moment she says it, she freezes, hands dropping to her lap, and Pippa turns around, fully facing her, a hand still holding her towel to her chest.

“How do you know that?”

“I—” Hecate swallows, words caught in her throat, the truth pressing at her teeth. She expects anger, horror, even, but Pippa just looks shocked, curious, confused. Licking her lips, she hedges slowly, “I… attended one of your performances. In London, at the Royal Witching Academy Theatre.”

Pippa frowns. “That was my senior year.”

Hecate nods. “Mine as well. I saw your name in the paper,” she says, not quite a lie, though she doesn’t mention she’d gone looking for it. Doesn’t tell her what she’d had to do to get Broomhead to give her a leave of absence, even for the day.

Pippa stares at her. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

 _Because I was scared_ , she thinks. _Because I wasn’t supposed to be there. Because I still loved you._

“You looked happy,” she says instead, settling for part of the truth. “I didn’t want to ruin that.”  She looks down at her hands, feels her throat tighten the longer Pippa is silent. “I shouldn’t have—” she starts, but Pippa crooks a finger under her chin and lifts her eyes to hers. Hecate inhales at the soft touch, the heartbroken smile on Pippa’s face.

“You wouldn’t have ruined anything.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

Pippa shakes her head, dropping her hand to Hecate’s and holds fast. “It would have been a surprise, yes, but not an unwelcome one. I thought about you a lot,” she admits. “I missed you.”

Hecate clenches her jaw, keeps her eyes wide to stop the tears pricking at the corners. “Pippa,” she tries, but doesn’t have the words, so she tangles their fingers together and squeezes, hopes that she understands, that she’s listening.

“Thank you,” Pippa murmurs. “For coming. For telling me, even if you couldn’t then.”

Hecate nods, knot in her throat. She doesn’t quite understand why Pippa isn’t angry, why she looks so close to tears; but she’ll take it. Take this precious moment, and she feels lighter. For the first time in months, feels like not everything is sitting on her chest. Feels like she can breathe.

Pippa smiles and squeezes her hands before letting go, and with a click of her fingers dresses for bed before disappearing to brush her teeth and check on the girls. Hecate listens to her as she instructs lights out, and Hecate slips outside to do her own checks of the wards. The night is vastly cooler, but humid, heavy, and she suspects tomorrow there will be rain.

She almost doesn’t mind, is certain Pippa will think of something to keep the students entertained.

When she returns to their room, Pippa is already back, brushing out her hair, and she smiles at Hecate like she just can’t help it.

Hecate knows the feeling, though her own smile is smaller, quieter.

They talk a bit more before bed, exchange a few stories about their students, about their co-workers. They talk about Ethel, and Hecate’s concerns over her increasingly belligerent behavior; Pippa offers advice, and tells her about the few students at her own school she’s had to expel over the years.

By the time they slip into bed, Hecate feels exhausted, but not the way she usually does. Not an all-consuming, bone-weary exhaustion, but something lighter, sleepier, and Pippa laughs softly as she struggles to keep her eyes open.

“Go to sleep, Hiccup,” Hecate hears her whisper as she drifts off. “I’ll be right here.”

\--

She wakes in the middle of the night to a loud crack, followed shortly by a flash of light that illuminates the room. Rain pounds against the windows, and she can hear the whistle of the wind through the trees surrounding them.

It doesn’t bother her—she’s always liked thunderstorms, found them calming; but Pippa hadn’t, not when they were children. Rolling over, she checks Pippa’s side of the bed only to find it empty, and frowns.

Slipping out from under the covers, she summons her robe and conjures a small light, slips out into the hall and through to the living room.

Her chest loosens when she finds Pippa there, curled up on the sofa, staring at the unlit fireplace.

“Pippa?”

Pippa looks up, makes to answer but another crack of thunder rattles the cabin, and she jumps, her fingers white-knuckling around the blanket.

“Are you alright?”

It seems ridiculous to ask, but Pippa nods even as she flinches at the momentary bright light. “I just don’t like storms,” she says quietly, shifting the blanket for Hecate to make room to sit next to her. Hecate lowers herself to the sofa, careful of the space between them, and releases the light to hover over the coffee table.

“And you thought sitting in the dark, alone, would help?” she asks dryly. Pippa huffs and glares at her mildly.

“Excuse me for not wanting to wake you,” she says, but there’s no bite to it, and Hecate almost smiles.

“I wouldn’t have minded.”

Pippa smiles wanely. “I know. But you needed the sleep.”

Hecate rolls her eyes. “I’ll try not to take offense to that.”

“You know what I mean,” Pippa says, slapping her shoulder lightly. “Besides,” she says on a yawn, “At least one of us should be fully awake tomorrow.”

Hecate stiffens, waits for her to bring up the Wide Awake potion in her bag; but if Pippa knows about it, she says nothing, and Hecate nods slowly, relaxes her shoulders.

“Given we’ll likely be trapped all day indoors with a group of rowdy second years, I’d prefer we both be well rested.” She pauses. “I can brew you something, if you like.”

Pippa shakes her head. “Thank you, but I’d rather not. They make me groggy the next day, at best.”

Hecate smirks. “I think you mean ‘tetchy.’”

Pippa glares at her, indignant. “I wasn’t that bad.”

“The one time I made you a sleeping draught the next day you nearly took my head off. And I still don’t think Evaline Wakesfield has recovered.”

“So why offer it to me now?”

Hecate shrugs, and looks at the small light. “You need to rest. And I can handle you at your worst.”

Pippa smiles. “You haven’t seen me at my worst.”

It sounds like a question, almost, and Hecate looks back, meets Pippa’s gaze. “I’m certain I’d be quite alright,” she says carefully, pleased when it seems to be the response Pippa had hoped for.

“Be that as it may,” she murmurs, “I’m sure I’d give the students quite a fright. Best not.”

“Tea, then,” Hecate says, and transfers into the kitchen before Pippa can protest. She brews the pot by magic, but uses real tea, a soothing camomile she finds in the cupboards, and transfers back a few minutes later with two steaming mugs.

Pippa thanks her and cradles the mug to her chest, blowing on it softly. There’s another clap of thunder, and Pippa startles again, spilling the hot water over her hand. She hisses, pulling her hand back, and Hecate quickly transfers their mugs to the table and scoots forward, catching Pippa’s hand gently.

“Let me see.”

“It’s fine, Hecate,” Pippa protests, but Hecate silences her with a glare, moving the light so it hovers over Pippa’s finger. It’s slightly red, but doesn’t look inflamed; regardless, she heals it quickly, eyes seeking out Pippa’s in the shadows.

“Is that alright?”

Pippa nods, but says nothing, just stares at her, her eyes wide. The small orb casts shadows on her face, and she’s so beautiful Hecate doesn’t want to look. Even with her sleep-tousled hair and tired eyes, Hecate wants nothing more than to cup her face in her palm, to kiss her, to hold her through the storm.

She wants, and wants, and wants, and it takes her a long moment to realize she’s still holding Pippa’s hand, her thumb moving back and forth over the pulse point in her wrist.

“Hecate,” Pippa whispers, and it’s so so soft, Hecate could swear there’s longing there, something deep and familiar and she swallows. Pippa’s eyes flicker down, then back up, and she licks her lips.

Hecate’s throat goes dry.

Thunder crashes through the cabin, and Pippa jumps, and Hecate pulls away, turns and quickly summons her tea, clutches the mug and tries to calm her racing heart, squeezes her eyes shut and tries to rid them of the image of Pippa’s face, so open, her lips parted, the illusion of want in her eyes.

Because Pippa _doesn’t_ want, and it isn’t fair for her to project, to see and hear things that aren’t there, to make Pippa uncomfortable with her own desire.

Beside her, she hears Pippa curse under her breath.

She stiffens, feels the urge to run, but when she glances at Pippa at of the corner of her eye, she can see Pippa’s hands shaking as she reaches for her own mug. She pulls them back into her lap, curling her hands into fists, and Hecate swallows tightly.

She can’t leave her.

A silencing spell would work, she knows—used to blanket her room when Pippa would slip under her covers in the middle of the night—but with all the students, she worries. Needs to be able to hear them, should something go wrong. Needs to know what’s happening outside the cabin at all times. She imagines Pippa already thought of it, besides, and dismissed it for similar reasons.

Pippa flinches at the flash of lightning, and huffs at herself. “This is ridiculous,” she grumbles, almost pouting. “I am a grown woman. It’s just thunder.”

Hecate’s certain she can’t keep the fondness off her face, or out of her smile.  “Clowns have always unnerved me.”

Pippa blinks and looks at her. “Clowns?”

Hecate nods. “If we’re sharing.”

A slow smile spreads over Pippa’s face. “Fish.”

“On the plate or in the wild?”

Pippa elbows her in the arm with a huff. “In the _wild_.”

Hecate smirks, then adds, somewhat grudgingly, “Airplanes.”

Pippa wings an eyebrow as she pulls her legs up to her chest and rests her cheek on her knees. “Flying in them or the airplanes themselves?”

“Both, I would imagine. Though I’ve never tried the former. Have you?”

Pippa nods. “Once. I went to New York for a seminar, and thought it would be a good experience.”

“Was it?”

“Horrible,” she admits. “It’s cramped and loud and the food is horrendous. You would hate it.”

“I’m certain I would.”

Pippa smirks. “We should do it sometime.”

“I think not.”

“Come on. A trip overseas. We always said we’d go to Salem together.”

“On brooms,” Hecate corrects. “Not in a metal coffin.” She wrinkles her nose just thinking about it.

Pippa smiles. “So you’re not opposed to going, then?”

Hecate blinks, realizes she’s serious, and shrugs, looking down at her tea. “No,” she says, tries to keep her voice steady, tries not to think of a trip with Pippa, just Pippa, one they’d talked about when they were girls, “Just not by plane. I’d rather live to see Salem, thank you.”

Pippa’s smile blooms. “No planes, then,” she promises, and Hecate nods, isn’t sure if Pippa means it entirely—isn’t sure if they’ll actually go, but she wants to. Wants so badly.

Pippa startles at the thunder again, and buries her face in her knees, squeezing her eyes shut until the lightning passes, too.

“Opossums,” Hecate blurts, trying to think of something to erase the strained look on Pippa’s face.

It works, and she blinks in surprise. “Opossums,” she repeats.

Hecate glares at her. “They’re violent,” Hecate defends.

“Only when they feel threatened. Like most animals.”

Hecate purses her lips. “Yes, well. I don’t like them.”

Pippa laughs. A bright sound she immediately silences with her hand over her mouth, but her eyes are wide with humor.

“I think they’re cute,” Pippa says, still giggling, and Hecate scowls.

“See how cute they are when they bite you,” she mumbles, folding her arms across her chest, and Pippa laughs again, biting her lip to stifle the sound.

“You’d let one bite me?” Pippa asks, lip stuck out in a pout, and Hecate sighs, wilting almost instantly.

“Of course not,” she mutters, then sniffs, “Regardless of how much you may deserve it.”

Scooting closer, Pippa leans her head on Hecate’s shoulder. “You’re ridiculous, Hiccup.”

Hecate stiffens for a moment, suddenly too warm, too much of Pippa pressed against too much of herself, and she has to concentrate on keeping her eyes from fluttering closed, her body from melting into Pippa’s touch.

But after a moment, she relaxes, lets her shoulders drop. Keeps her hands clutched around her mug of tea, no matter how badly she wants to wind an arm around Pippa’s shoulders, or run her hand through Pippa’s hair. She stares straight forward and clears her throat, but can’t find anything to say.

Pippa doesn’t seem to mind, and when Hecate settles, Pippa snuggles in closer, tugging at the blanket to throw some of it over Hecate’s legs.

“Tell me what else you don’t like,” Pippa says, startling again at the thunder, pressing closer to Hecate.

Hecate sighs. “Unruly students.”

Pippa huffs. “Something I _don’t_ know.” She pauses, then, quieter, “Tell me anything I don’t know.”

Hecate pauses.

She hears the part Pippa doesn’t say—anything _about you_ —and there’s so much Pippa doesn’t know. So much that isn’t right, or isn’t good. So much that hurts. But she doesn’t want that, not right now. Can’t break this moment with pain of any kind. Not when Pippa is curled against her, trusting.

That she’ll protect her, the way she used to when they were young.

That she’ll make things better.

She thinks for a long moment, then clears her throat, and takes a sip of tea before saying, “I still play the piano. Ada keeps one for me in the basement, and I go down there sometimes, when things get... stressful.”

Pippa nods against her shoulder. “What do you play?” she asks, so Hecate tells her. Talks about her affinity for classical music, the pieces she works on, the composers she likes: Mendelssohn and Schumann and Smyth.

Pippa asks her questions, her voice slurring further and further with each one. She slowly stops starting at the thunder, her head lolling heavy against Hecate’s shoulder, and it’s less than an hour before she drifts off, a mumbled, “Will you play for me, Hiccup?” as her eyes close.

Hecate smiles softly, a flush over her cheeks. “Someday,” she murmurs; but Pippa doesn’t hear, and it’s only a few minutes later that she begins snoring softly.

Hecate waits until she’s certain Pippa is fast asleep, then transfers her back to their bed. She pulls the covers up over her shoulders and casts a silencing spell around just that room, smiling as Pippa snuffles into the pillow.

She leaves, shuts the door softly behind her, and takes up residence on the sofa, lest one of the students need her. Curling into the corner with a book, she tries to stay awake, but the sound of thunder soothes her, the rain against the windows lulling her to sleep.


	4. i took an axe to the willow to see how it wept

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- see part one

She wakes to the sound of thunder, and rain, and a hushed whisper, “She’s not so scary like this. In fact she’s almost kind of—”

Hecate opens her eyes, already glowering, and Enid jumps a foot in the air, scrambling back from where she was peering over the back of the sofa.

“Girls!” she hears Pippa hiss. “Leave Miss Hardbroom alone.”

“Too late,” Enid mutters as Hecate sits up, neck aching from being slumped over the arm of the sofa half the night. She doesn’t let it show, and instead glares at the girls to cover her embarrassment.

“I assume you have something more important to be doing?”

Maud gulps and tugs on Enid’s hand. “Yes, Miss Hardbroom. Sorry, Miss Hardbroom.”

They hurry away, and Pippa sighs, coming over to the couch with a cup of tea in hand. She proffers it to Hecate with an apologetic grimace. “I tried to get them to be quiet.”

Hecate shakes her head, but takes the mug, cradling it to her chest for a moment. “You should have woken me. The students—”

“Will still find you terrifying, even in your nightclothes,” Pippa reassures her, though it only serves to make Hecate flush and jolt to her feet.

“I should—excuse me,” she manages, trying to slip away; but Pippa catches her arm, holds her back, her eyes soft and voice quiet,

“Thank you. For last night. You didn’t have to give up your sleep for me.”

Hecate swallows, feels Pippa’s touch burn through her robe. “I’ll be fine.”

Pippa nods, but squeezes her arm anyway before she lets go. “Still. It was sweet of you.”

 _Sweet_ isn’t a word she’s accustomed to hearing, not about herself, and she can’t stop the frown, the slight wrinkle of her nose at the descriptor. Pippa laughs, and shakes her head, shoving her lightly in a way that makes Hecate startle.

“Go get dressed. We’re playing games today.”

Pippa waggles her eyebrows and Hecate nearly groans. “Why do you insist on torturing me?”

Pippa grins. “It’s fun,” she says. “And you make such cute faces.”

Hecate blinks at that, mouth open, no words on the tip of her tongue, and Pippa leaves her that way, disappearing into the kitchen to let the others know she’s awake.

Not all the students are out of bed yet, as it’s still early, but when she returns from their room fully dressed and a little less self-conscious, there are a few in the kitchen, making cereal or eating toast, whispering loudly to one another over the rain.

Hecate eyes them all crossly, daring them to say a word—they don’t, of course, but she sees Mildred bite down a smile and hears Dylan murmur, “I dunno. I thought she’d snore—you know, like a dragon.”

“Dragons do not snore,” Ethel says haughtily, sneaking a glance at Hecate, and Hecate knows she intended for her to hear it, intended for her to hear everything, to get Dylan in trouble. But she merely wings and eyebrow, summons her tea and takes a sip, watching them over the rim.

Dylan gulps and mutters quietly, “A really cool dragon?”

Hecate lets her lips quirk, just slightly, and Dylan breathes a sigh of relief before quickly changing the subject. Ethel huffs and stomps away, and as soon as she’s gone the table breaks into giggles.

Hecate rolls her eyes, but lets them be.

She lets them be for most of the morning, through breakfast, and cleanup, and a game of something called ‘pick-up sticks’ that Mildred’s brought with her. Hecate understands the rules, though not the point, but she lets them play several rounds, almost pleased when they begin to incorporate magic into the game, practicing spells and chants to lift the different colors.

She spends most of her time in the corner of the living room, merely watching, occasionally reading, and trying to pretend that she can’t feel Pippa’s gaze. But every time she glances up, Pippa is staring at her, a small smile on her face that she then tries to hide, looking away with a blush.

Hecate isn’t certain what it means, but it makes her stomach knot and her face feel hot, and the tips of her ears burn. Pippa’s attention has always done that to her, but here, it’s so pointed, and there’s nowhere to go. Outside is still a downpour, wind swiping at the trees, and she can’t very well hide in their room all day.

So she pretends not to notice, focuses instead on quizzing the students at random; but even that seems to make Pippa smile, and it itches at her skin, the soft way she’s looking at Hecate. She doesn’t know what to do with it, what to say, and finds herself nearly tongue-tied every time Pippa speaks to her.

It’s almost a welcome distraction when the girls suggest a different game, but her relief is short-lived when she realizes what it is.

“What’s magical about truth or dare?” Mildred asks, and Nawal explains eagerly,

“You can’t lie,” she says. “The magic won’t let you. Everyone puts their names in a hat, and each person gets to draw someone’s name, and you _have_ to answer—honestly.” She grins. “It’s super fun.”

Hecate clenches her jaw to keep from interjecting.

She hates this game. Has always hated this game, has only ever played once before, with a group of Pippa’s friends. She was fortunate enough that Pippa drew her name, asked her something relatively innocuous, but she remembers the unimpressed stares, the snickering; Pippa’s obliviousness.

Or perhaps not, she thinks now, as Pippa’s gaze changes from fond to wary, concerned. She can almost hear the question, the silent: _Do you want me to stop them?_

Hecate shakes her head minutely.

They’ll play one way or another, she knows, and she’d rather they do it where she can hear them—where the questions they ask will be, she hopes, more innocuous given their teachers’ presence.

She watches as they form a circle, some on the floor, some on chairs, scrawling their names on slips of paper and tossing them into Dylan’s baseball cap.

Nawal says the chant to start the game, and Hecate can feel the magic instantly, the way it weaves around the circle. It feels unnatural, too much like truth serum, and she balls her hands into fists against her thigh.

Pippa sits next to her a moment later, her thigh touching Hecate’s, and offers a slight smile. “It’ll be okay,” she says. “They’re good kids.”

Hecate nods, though she isn’t sure she quite believes it; and yet, they prove Pippa right after a while.

Maud draws a name first, gets Dylan, and when they pick dare, Maud instructs them to dance around the room and cluck like a chicken.

Dylan does so with relish, bawking loudly, twirling and jumping over the students as they laugh—with them, but not at them. Dylan draws Archie’s name, who picks truth, and of course, is compelled to say who he has a crush on.

Archie glowers at Dylan’s smug smile and mumbles, “Maud Spellbody,” under his breath, flushing a shade of red so bright Hecate wonders if it’s been somehow burned.

Everyone cheers and Maud turns a similar shade, burying her face in Mildred’s shoulder. Only Ethel rolls her eyes, unamused, especially when Nawal draws her name.

“Truth,” Ethel says arrogantly, and Nawal smirks.

“Why are you so rude all the time?”

Ethel opens her mouth, Hecate thinks to protest, and instead what comes out is a short, “I have a massive inferiority complex.”

Her eyes widen and she slaps her hand over her mouth, and Hecate almost feels bad for her as the circle erupts in laughter. Ethel glowers, but still primly picks up the hat and draws Matthew’s name, looking faintly disappointed when he picks ‘dare’ instead of ‘truth.’

The game continues without much fuss—a lot of crushes and silly dances, and they play several rounds, passing the hat and returning the names to play again.

They’re on the third go around when Mildred’s turn is up again, and she pulls a name from the hat, mid-laugh, then goes silent.

She stares down at the piece of paper in her hand for a moment, then looks around the circle, shaking her head.

“I didn’t—I don’t know how—”

“What’s wrong, Millie?”

Mildred catches Hecate’s gaze, her eyes wide and nervous. “Miss Hardbroom.”

Hecate arches an eyebrow, waiting for her to elaborate.

Mildred swallows, and holds out the paper. “It’s your name, Miss Hardbroom, I have no idea how it got there, I swear I didn’t—”

Hecate blinks, then scowls, unamused, irritation quickly rising. “It didn’t just appear,” she snaps, a rising panic in her throat. “Someone entered my name, _Mildred Hubble_ ,” she says, intentionally accusatory even as her eyes flicker around the circle. Most of the students look confused, nervous, wary, surprised. Only Ethel looks smug, her arms folded across her chest, and Hecate takes a deep breath through her nose to calm herself.

“It wasn’t me!” Mildred protests, and Hecate knows that, but it doesn’t matter. The damage is done.

She tries to summon the paper from Mildred’s hand, but it won’t budge.  The only way out is to answer the question, whatever question Mildred asks.  She can feel the magic pressing on her, wanting, demanding.

Beside her, Pippa smiles too brightly. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, Hecate. Mildred would never ask anything embarrassing, would you, Mildred?”

Mildred shakes her head a bit frantically. “I promise, Miss Hardbroom. I’ll just ask something about potions.”

Archie looks at her sympathetically. “It can’t be general knowledge, it has to be a secret. That’s the point.”

Ethel scoffs, mutters, “You’d know that if you were a real witch.”

Mildred flinches, and Hecate flexes her hand against her thigh. There’s nothing she can do about Ethel, not now, but she can give Mildred an out, of sorts.

“Be very, very careful what you ask, Mildred Hubble,” she says lowly.

Mildred nods and gulps. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth. If I must,” she sneers, knowing it’s safer than a dare. Safer than having to do something, yet again, against her will.

Mildred bites her lip, quiet for a long moment. Hecate can see her considering questions, dismissing them, trying something else. The room is still, half the students holding their breath, some trying not to snigger, some impatient.

Finally Mildred looks up at her, takes a deep breath, and blurts: “What’s your happiest memory, from when you were a kid?”

Hecate blinks in surprise. She’d expected something about Cackle’s, about secrets, about her personal life, even her relationship with Pippa. There’s a grumble in the circle, a disbelieving,  _That’s_ _your question?_ , students who appear to have thought the same, but Mildred doesn’t budge, looking at Hecate hopefully.

She takes longer to answer than she does to think of a response. Deliberates her phrasing, how to answer the question within the confines of the game, the magic compelling her to answer truthfully, and her own sense of self-preservation.

Mildred chews on her bottom lip, and finally stammers, “I can try another if that’s—”

“My seventh birthday,” Hecate interrupts. “My mother baked a cake, and I was allowed to blow out the candles and make a wish.”

The magic lets go, and Hecate relaxes marginally, laying her hand flat against her thigh. Mildred smiles tentatively at her, about to say something when Matthew huffs, and mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear,

“What’s so special about one birthday cake?”

“Matthew!” Pippa snaps, and he immediately wilts.

“Sorry, Miss Pentangle,” he says, but the question is out now, hovering in the air, and Hecate feels compelled to defend herself, her answer, her upbringing.  

“My father didn’t believe in frivolous celebrations,” she says, as defensively as she can, as if she agrees. “A birthday is no different than any other day.”

Maud frowns, pieces sliding together, and she can’t seem to help herself when she asks, “So you only had one birthday party? In your whole life?”

Hecate glowers at her, and Maud immediately slaps a hand over her mouth, a mumbled, “Sorry, Miss Hardbroom” slipping through her fingers.

A few of the students gasp, as if it’s the most horrific thing they’ve ever heard.  

Hecate frowns, and risks a glance at Pippa, who seems abruptly interested in her own shoes. She looks almost sad, dejected or despondent, as if she knows how Hecate will respond; as if she thinks she’s forgotten all the other birthdays, their own quiet celebrations.

The way Pippa always remembered her birthday—the way she went out of her way to find out when it was. How she always gave Hecate something she might like. Not something she could use, not something functional, like her father’s rare gifts. But something pretty. Something silly. Something Hecate would never ask for, but might desire: a painting or a necklace or an ornate tin.

Hecate kept all her gifts. Still has them, in a box under her bed, but Pippa doesn’t know that. Doesn’t realize how much those things meant to her, how much they still mean, even now.

Hecate wants to end the conversation, but she can’t quite bring herself to leave on that note, to let Pippa think she doesn’t remember, or doesn’t care.

“I… did not say that,” Hecate says slowly, carefully. “I merely stated that my _family_ refrained from celebrations, not my…friends.”

She doesn’t look at Pippa as she says it, ignores the whispered, _Miss Hardbroom has friends?_ ; instead, she snatches the basket out of Mildred’s hands and vanishes it far, far away.

“That’s quite enough. Perhaps a more challenging enterprise will alleviate your boredom,” she says, conjuring pencils and paper for each student. “Five hundred words on the uses of spiders legs in potions. You have forty minutes.”

There’s a collective groan, a _Good job, Mildred Hubble_ , from someone, and Maud’s always quiet, always reassuring, “It’s not your fault, Millie.”

Hecate ignores them, and finally chances a glance at Pippa, who’s staring at her with damp eyes and a small, unreadable smile.

—

The rain lets up in the mid-afternoon, sun peaking through the clouds enough to get the students out of the cabin. Hecate breathes in the fresh, clean air, and almost smiles at her girls as they attempt to leap high enough to knock water off the tree leaves.

Pippa smiles next to her, standing so close, her arm brushing Hecate’s.

“Remember when we were that young?” Pippa says, nudging her with her elbow.

Hecate rolls her eyes as Enid slips in the mud and lands in a puddle. “Young, perhaps, but not nearly as foolish.”

“I don’t know,” Pippa says, almost wistfully, “I remember a few adventures that could have been called ‘foolish.’”

Hecate smiles slightly, remembers the same—sneaking up to the roof of the castle to stargaze, wandering into the forbidden forest near the school in search of corpse flowers. “Yes, well,” she says quietly, “ _They_ certainly don’t need to know all that.”

Pippa laughs, hand skimming down Hecate’s arm before she walks away, gathering the students to follow her along the trail.

They’re practicing tracking, a particularly difficult challenge given the rain has wiped most prints away; but Hecate recognizes it’s really an excuse to be outdoors, and for once, she doesn’t mind. Lets the students feign interest in so-called tracks, while up ahead Felicity bombards Pippa with question after question—about her life, her studies, Pentangle’s. Pippa answers every one thoughtfully, and Hecate marvels at her patience, the way she skirts some topics, always delicate, always kind.

The rest are somewhere in the middle, chatting amiably, all save Ethel, who hovers on the outskirts. Mildred tries several times to include her, but she snaps back each time, and eventually Mildred gives up for the time being and lets Ethel sulk.

Certain she’s still smarting over their game of truth or dare, Hecate feels a flutter of pity in her chest. Transferring to her side, Hecate conjures a list of flowers and plants and a small basket. Tells Ethel she needs them by the evening—demands that she stay in sight of the trail at all time, but it will give her something to do, something that makes her feel important, needed.

Wanted.

Hecate knows Ethel does most of the damage to herself, but she can’t quite find it in herself to give up on the girl entirely.

As she expected, Ethel takes the basket and list with a raised chin and firm nod. “Absolutely, Miss Hardbroom. _I_ won’t let you down.”

She says it loud enough for Mildred to hear, and Hecate resists the urge to roll her eyes.

“See that you don’t,” she says instead, sees a brief flash of surprise on Ethel’s face before she stomps away.

She lets the rest of the students pass her, brings up the rear, surprised to find Dylan hovering near the back, alone.

They look up from scuffing their shoes at her presence, but say nothing, trudging along beside her in silence.

Hecate considers this for a moment, then, without looking at them, broaches cautiously, “You’re very... quiet.”

She sees Dylan look up at her out of the corner of her eye. “Bit unnerving, huh?” they say with a small laugh. “Me dad always says a day I’m not talking is a blessed curse.”

Hecate nods, unsure how to reply—Dylan doesn’t particularly seem in the mood for conversation, but nor do they seem hostile or upset. Just contemplative, in a way Hecate rarely sees young students.

She’s saved from having to think of response by the commotion from up ahead, sudden gasps and crowding and pointing and Pippa, trying to usher the students back towards Hecate.

They don’t appear to be listening, and Hecate narrows her eyes, transfering to Pippa’s side, a sharp, “If it is completely beyond you to follow simple instructions—” that dies when Enid actually _shushes_ her, pointing behind her frantically.

“Miss Hardbroom, look!” she whispers, loudly, at the same time Pippa says, “No, Hecate, don’t—”

But she’s already turned, already following Enid’s gaze, and her blood runs cold. A rabbit-looking creature sits on its haunches near the tree roots, and Hecate knows that to Pippa—to the others, she’s certain—it’s beautiful. Fur so white it sparkles, long limbs, antlers atop its head that shine gold, opalescent wings.

At least, that’s what she’s been told.

“It’s beautiful,” Nawal whispers from behind her.

“What is it?” Felicity asks, awe in her voice that’s covered by Pippa’s slightly panicked,

“We need to leave now. Slowly, back down the path.”

Maud frowns. “Is it dangerous?”

Matthew huffs. “It doesn’t _look_ dangerous. It’s a rabbit.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Hecate sees Pippa open her mouth to reply, but it’s Dylan who says it, Dylan who comes to stand beside her, eyes fixed on the creature.

“It’s a Nightwing.”

A few students gasp, more frown. “What’s a Nightwing?” Mildred asks, but Maud and Enid shrug, and even Ethel remains quiet. It’s Archie who answers, his voice low,

“I heard about them. They look different to different people, yeah?”

Pippa nods, her hand on Dylan’s shoulder. “Something like that. Miss Hardbroom.”

Hecate tries to turn, to look at her, but she can’t draw her eyes away from the Nightwing, its black face, blacker eyes. She can’t imagine what brought this one here, why now—

She glances down at Dylan, similarly focused on the creature.

Hecate purses her lips slowly, her throat dry. “I’ll stay with them,” she says quietly, and Pippa nods once before turning back to the group and raising her voice, her tone firm and strict.

“Alright,” she says. “Everyone back to camp.”

The students murmur amongst themselves, but follow Pippa dutifully, the sounds of their conversations fading, replaced by the quiet rustle of the forest. Hecate does her best to keep one eye on the Nightwing, one on Dylan. She knows it can’t hurt either of them, but still. She worries, fingers tensed, magic ready, just in case.

“I always thought they’d be uglier.”

Hecate looks down, feels her heart tug in sympathy. “You’ve never seen one before?”

Dylan shakes their head. “Nah. Heard about them. Me dad saw them loads after my other dad died. Said there was one at the funeral.” Dylan shrugs. “Aunt Myra kept going on about a white hare, but…” They trail off, uncertain.

“Nightwings often appear that way to… most,” she says carefully. “People generally report seeing a white rabbit, with antlers and wings.”

“It’s got wings, alright.”

Hecate nods, her gaze flickering back to the creature. It’s nearly all bone, saggy skin and dead eyes and wings that stretch twice the length of its body, paper thin and splattered red. Its mouth is nearly all teeth, razor sharp, and her stomach twists when it moves, when she catches sight of a long, black claw.

“Why’s it just sitting there?”

Hecate clears her throat, but her voice is still too soft, too quiet. “It can’t touch us,” she says. “The others—it would try to lure them away, one by one. But it knows we can see it.”

Dylan huffs. “Kinda wish I couldn’t.”

 _I understand_ , Hecate thinks, doesn’t say, but settles a hand on Dylan’s shoulder, light and gentle. They look up at her with a forced smile, eyes bright.

“You too, huh?”

Hecate swallows, then nods slowly. “Yes.”

Dylan doesn’t ask. Doesn’t say much else, and Hecate doesn’t know how long they stand there, watching the creature, it’s spindly wings, long claws that dig at the earth.

She can’t help but think of her mother.

One thought, it’s her birthday, and there’s a cake and candles and the next it’s morning and her mother’s hand is so cold, images and memories blurring together, and she wonders if it’s her fault, the Nightwing. If she brought it here.

There’s no way to tell for certain, and she tries to let go of the knot in her chest.

Eventually Dylan wrenches their eyes away, and when they look up, there’s a wet sheen to them that makes Hecate’s heart clench. “Can we go back now?”

Hecate nods, transfers them both easily, and the moment they’re back at camp, Dylan mumbles a thank you and hurries away, swiping a sleeve over their eyes.

The rest of the students are back already, gathered around the campfire, and Hecate watches as Dylan drops heavily onto a seat next to Nawal; sees her put an arm around Dylan’s shoulder and hug them close.

Pippa is mid-explanation, and Hecate leaves her to it. Doesn’t want to hear what she already knows—how Nightwings’ present themselves as beautiful creatures, how they lure their prey deep into the forest, how their innocence deceives even the brightest and cleverest of witches.

She transfers into the cabin instead, focuses on making a cup of tea, channels her magic to keep it steady.

It’s been decades since she’s seen a Nightwing. Hasn’t seen one since the last time she went to the forest, with Pippa, when they were young.

She still remembers Pippa’s awe, the way she’d knelt down and reached out a hand; the way Hecate had pushed her back, hard. The way she’d had to explain, her voice unsteady, that it was a mirage. Wasn’t real. The beauty wasn’t real.

“What is it, then?” Pippa had asked.

Hecate remembers telling her what she saw, remembers the confusion on Pippa’s face. “Why can you see it and I can’t?” she’d asked, without a trace of scepticism. Not a single note of disbelief, never crossed her mind that Hecate might be lying.

It was that trust, and Pippa’s hand still in hers that made her brave enough. “You can only see their true form if you’ve touched death,” she’d said, almost mechanically, reciting from the textbook.

For a moment, she remembers, Pippa hadn’t understood. Then her eyes cleared and her expression fell and she bit her lip, a breathless, “Oh, Hiccup,” that made Hecate flinch away. But she’d told her about her mother. Told her what she could of that morning. Told her more about her father than she ever had. Told her she was grateful to be there, away from the too-big, too-lonely house.

Pippa had nodded, and smiled brightly even though her eyes gleamed with tears, and wrapped her arms around Hecate tight as she could. “We’ll be your family,” she’d promised.

And she’d kept that promise—stayed by Hecate’s side until the day she left. Even after, she tried, harder than Hecate ever expected to reach out to her. It was months before Pippa gave up completely.

Hecate closes her eyes and braces her hands against the sink and tries to see something in her mind besides the disfigured form of the Nightwing, its black eyes; tries to remember something other than her mother’s hand, cold and still.

She’s interrupted by the sound of several students coming back into the cabin, and she doesn’t want them to see her—doesn’t quite want to face them yet, wants, hopelessly, to see Pippa. Pippa’s reassuring smile. Pippa’s warm touch.

She transfers back outside, to the treeline, sees the group has dispersed somewhat, sees Pippa talking to a few students, hears her voice, low and soothing. She doesn’t pay attention to what she says, just listens to the sound of her voice, almost melodic, and closes her eyes. Lets the tone soothe her, settle her.

When she opens her eyes, Pippa still hasn’t noticed her, and Hecate moves to approach her, then stalls at her words:

“People who have touched death—they’re no longer fooled by the illusion,” Pippa is saying to the small group—only Enid, Nawal, Mildred, and Maud remain.

“That’s why Dylan could see it,” Nawal says quietly, glancing back toward the cabin. “They held their dad’s hand when he—”

Pippa nods. “Sometimes they appear when someone’s been thinking about someone who’s died. Sometimes the appearances are random. But they are very dangerous, and should never, ever be trusted,” she warns.  

A brief silence settles before Enid asks slowly, “Miss Hardbroom could see it, too, couldn’t she? Does that mean she…?”

Pippa hesitates, then nods slowly, and Hecate feels panic well in her throat. Feels her hands clench into fists before she registers the anger—not at Pippa, but at everything, the sudden overwhelming fear that nothing is protected. That she can’t keep any part of herself _safe_ —her actions, her emotions, her memories.

Pippa opens her mouth to say something, but Hecate doesn’t give her the chance to answer. Transfering to them, she appears behind Pippa, ignores the way she jumps and places a hand over her heart.

“Miss Pentangle, a word?” she asks, but it’s rhetorical, and she transfers them both away, into the kitchen of the cabin.

Pippa huffs. “Must you?”

“I’d appreciate if you kept my private affairs just that,” Hecate says curtly, feels on edge, feels exposed.

“I didn’t tell them, Hecate,” Pippa says gently, laying a hand on her arm. Hecate stiffens, and Pippa withdraws. “I wouldn’t have,” she insists, promises—and Hecate believes her, but her heart is still hammering and it doesn’t help when Pippa licks her lips, hesitates a long moment before she says, “But…I don’t think it would hurt, you know. To tell them something about you. Even if it isn’t that.”

Hecate clenches her jaw momentarily. She thinks of easy smiles and her hair around her waist and her mother’s rare laughter. “There’s no reason for them to know anything about me. They’re my pupils, not my friends.”

“I understand that,” Pippa says patiently. Her voice is soft and not at all accusatory, but Hecate feels accused. Feels like she’s done something wrong, in wanting to keep her heart tucked away. In wanting to keep some parts of her separate from her students, from everyone. To keep what’s left of herself _safe._ Feels like she’s failed Pippa in some way, because of the near pitying look in Pippa’s eyes, the way she’s careful, so careful with her words, like Hecate might break. It makes her bristle, and she’s barely listening when Pippa says, “I just think, if you let them get to know you better, to see you the way I see you, then maybe—”

“They might refrain from drugging me?”

Pippa’s jaw drops and she looks wounded, then desperate, shaking her head. “That’s not what I meant. Hecate, you _know_ that’s not what I meant.”

She does. She knows Pippa wouldn’t ever, but she doesn’t know how to back down, to give up the only ground she feels she has, anger the only thing keeping the tears behind her eyes from falling.

She stares, silent, and Pippa’s shoulders sag. “Don’t do this,” she murmurs. “Don’t hide from me, please.”

Pippa sounds exhausted, resigned, and Hecate’s chest pulls tightly—in shame, in embarrassment, in fear, in resentment. A bitterness that creeps up her spine and makes her hate the way Pippa is looking at her, hate the pleading expression on her face, the hopeful way she says,

“We’ve been getting closer, lately, and I—isn’t that what you want?”

Because it is, it desperately is, more than Hecate knows how to articulate. She wants to be as close as they were, closer, to know Pippa’s hopes and dreams and darkest fears and to celebrate with her and mourn with her and be there for her but she wants it so much, so acutely, she feels panicked that Pippa will know, will realize that it’s more than friendship, that it’s everything.

But she’s afraid, and she doesn’t understand why Pippa isn’t. Doesn’t understand how she can be so cavalier with her heart, especially with someone like Hecate. Doesn’t understand why she trusts her, why she keeps trusting her; doesn’t understand why she keeps letting Pippa down.  

Her mind races and her heart pounds and she says nothing, simply stares at Pippa and she doesn’t quite know what her face is doing, what she’s presenting, but after a long moment, Pippa looks away, crestfallen, and Hecate wants to scream.

“Alright,” Pippa says quietly, turning, and Hecate wants to reach out, to touch her, to hold her back but her limbs are stiff and her hands won’t move, and she can’t quite get the words out before Pippa transfers away.

\--

The ice cracks and the school falls and Hecate dances in the wreckage. She can see outside of herself, her students frozen like sentries, sees Ada, sobbing on the ground. She wants to go to them, screams in her own mind to go to them, help them, save them.

Her feet keep dancing.

She leaves roses at their feet, hums a merry tune, doesn’t seem to notice the frost creeping its way up her ankles.

 _Do something!_ she screams at herself, but she doesn’t listen, doesn’t care.

She freezes over, feels the ice creep through her blood to her heart. Feels her magic die.

She can’t breathe, eyes watering but they’re frozen open, staring at the remains of her school.

In the distance, there’s laughter.

Ada, but not Ada.

Agatha.

Her heart stops.

Everything burns.

Her vision starts to blacken, and she feels herself begin to slip away, the echo of her name on Ada’s lips, calling to her, calling for help.

_Hecate._

_Hecate._

“Hecate!”

She gasps, chest heaving, air horrible and popping in her lungs and there’s a weight on her arm she tries to scramble away from. Feels like claws.

“Hecate, it’s me, it’s Pippa!”

For a moment, the words don’t make sense. She doesn’t understand why Pippa would be here, at Cackle’s, why she’d be in her bed. Why she’d be there at all. And then she remembers:

“The girls.” Her heart beats double time and she tries to get out of bed, feels Pippa hold her back. “They’re in danger, the ice—I have to—the girls—”

“The girls are fine, Hecate, they’re safe,” Pippa says, pulling her back. “The ice is gone, it’s over. It’s okay. Everyone’s okay.”

She doesn’t believe, can’t believe, for a long moment—and then she remembers. Everything all at once.

She blinks in the dark, and feels a hand settle tentatively on hers. “It’s alright. You’re safe.”

Pippa watches her closely, with so much concern, so much sympathy, and she doesn’t know what to do with it. How to handle the soft touch, the care.

It’s been so long since someone cared—cared enough to learn how to be there for her, how to touch her, how to listen. She thinks of Ada, how close they were, how much distance the last year has put between them, and Hecate knows it’s partly her fault.

Everything feels like her fault.

The ice, the potions, the careful, careful way Pippa is touching her now, when what she really wants is to bury her face in Pippa’s neck and hold on.

There’s a knock on the door, a rapid, frantic, “Miss Hardbroom? Miss Pentangle?”

Hecate jerks away and throws open the door, glowering down at Maud and Mildred, balling her hands at her sides to keep them from shaking.

“What do you—” she starts, but Mildred interrupts,

“We heard screaming.”

Hecate frowns, listens for a moment to the silent house.

“It sounded like it was coming from over here,” Maud says, a bit timidly.

Pippa appears at her side, and Hecate’s face pales as she smiles kindly at them. “Everyone’s fine, girls,” she says. “I thought I saw a rat.”

“A rat?” Mildred asks.

Pippa forces a laugh. “Silly to be afraid of them, I know. But everything’s alright now. Hecate sent it outside for me.”

Hecate flinches at the lie, but doesn’t correct her, doesn’t say a word.

“Thank you for checking on us,” Pippa says, ushering them out the door. “Try to get some sleep.”

“But—”

“We’ll talk more in the morning,” Pippa says firmly, and they both nod; but Mildred looks back at Hecate before she leaves, looks at her like she knows, and Hecate turns away, stalks back into the room and doesn’t turn until she hears the door close, Pippa’s quiet sigh.

It makes her angry, abruptly furious with herself, with Pippa, with the girls, with her life. With this entire trip, that was supposed to be a way, perhaps, to mend bridges with Pippa and all she can seem to do is make them worse. They crumble under her touch, and her eyes sting and her throat burns and she can’t help snapping back at Pippa’s quiet, “Are you alright?”

“Do I look alright?”

Pippa shakes her head. “You’re right. Silly question.”

Hecate clenches her jaw. She wishes Pippa wouldn’t do that. Wouldn’t allow her so much, forgive her so much.

“What can I do?” she asks, and Hecate shakes her head stiffly.

“Nothing.”

Pippa flinches, but tries again, a searching,  

“Would you like a cup of tea? I could make you a sleeping draught if you think that would—”

“I said _nothing_. There’s nothing you can do.”

It’s a lie, a bold one, sticks to the roof of her mouth because she wants so much from Pippa, too much to ask for, too much for Pippa to give.

And Pippa would, she knows. Would give her so much of herself, and it isn’t fair. She won’t ruin Pippa the way she did when they were children. Not again.

“That can’t be true,” Pippa whispers.

Hecate curls her lip and glares at her in the dim light, says the words even as her heart rebels against them. “There’s nothing I _want_ you to do,” Hecate says, the lie horrid and cracking on her tongue.

Still, Pippa steps forward, her voice so gentle it makes Hecate’s skin itch. “Maybe,” she murmurs, “But if there’s anything you _need_ —”

“I don’t need _anything,_ ” Hecate snaps, “And I certainly don’t need _you._ ”

Pippa freezes and Hecate hears the words reverberate in the small room, in the space between them. They cut at her, make her feel light headed and sick because it’s not true, it’s not true, it’s not true, but she can’t speak. Pippa’s eyes well with tears and she stares at Hecate for a long moment before she looks away, sniffling.

She says nothing, doesn’t try again, just picks up her robe from the chair and slips it on, slips out of the room and shuts the door behind her, and Hecate crumples. Her legs give out and she has to catch herself on the bed, sinking onto it, chest heaving.

She spends the night staring at the wall, gripping the bed sheets, her hand pressed tight over her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- yeah i know they're basically thestrals i'm a thief


	5. again, the endless northern rain between us (part one)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- see part one  
> \- this was too long so i split it in two parts

Pippa doesn’t look at her once all morning. Her smiles are forced, her eyes red-rimmed behind her makeup, and even the students seem to realize something is horribly wrong.

They’re quieter, calmer, cast furtive glances between the two of them and whisper among themselves and Hecate hates it. The microscope.

She’s relieved when Pippa announces they’re going to split up—that she’ll take a group off the path today to look for feathers and snake skins and other materials. Hecate agrees to stay with a group at the cabin, to lecture a bit and give them time to work on their projects. They decide in few words that the group will return for lunch, then switch.

Pippa doesn’t look her in the eye, just stares at a point over her shoulder and nods before turning with a too-wide smile to her group and ushering them away from camp.

She’s somehow both irritated and pleased when Mildred falls in step with Pippa, and offers her a side hug as they walk. At least she knows someone is looking after Pippa, even though it should be her.

She wants it to be her.

Wants to stop hurting her, to stop running, to be whatever it is that Pippa needs her to be but there’s so much noise—in her head, in her heart. So many old wounds that keep opening and scabbing and opening and she doesn’t know how to do anything other than nurse them in private. Doesn’t know how to let Pippa see them.

Can’t imagine why she’d stay if she did.

And yet, Pippa stays regardless. Stays no matter what she says, what she does.

_I don’t think there’s anything you could do that I wouldn’t forgive._

Hecate flinches. Resolves herself to at least attempting to apologize to Pippa when she returns, though she doesn’t know what good it will do.

Knows she doesn’t deserve to mend anything.

\--

The morning passes smoothly. She gives the students time to work on their projects, answers their questions as calmly as she can, though she’s aware there’s a bit too much bite in her tone. Most of them stay away from her, only gathering around the fire when she begins her lecture about an hour before Pippa’s group is due back.

She’s instructing her group on the proper way to remove a frog’s heart when a faint noise reaches her ears. Her name, louder and louder, and with a flick of her wrist she transfers Enid in front of her, mid-scream.

“Miss Hardbro—”

Enid stumbles into her, still running, and Hecate clamps a hand on Enid’s shoulder to push her back.

“What is all this—” she starts, but Enid interrupts, bent over, panting out a hoarse,

“Miss Pentangle. Terebachia.”

Hecate’s skin goes cold and the girls start murmuring, gasps and questions bandied around Hecate has no time for.

“Where?” she demands.

Enid points in the direction she came from. “By the willows.”

“Do not leave this camp,” she snaps, garnering everyone’s attention. “Stay exactly where you are or there will be _serious_ consequences.”

She barely hears the chorus of “Yes, Miss Hardbroom” before she vanishes, using a detection spell to guide her. She reappears where Enid said, near the willows south of the camp. The students are gathered in a small circle, hovering.

“Move,” she snaps, and Maud and Archie jump at the sound, scrambling out of the way. Hecate sees Pippa on the ground, her head resting in Mildred’s lap, eyes closed and skin slightly pink.

Her heart twists as she drops to her knees and places a the back of her hand against Pippa’s forehead. She’s burning up, doesn’t respond at all to the slight touch, and Hecate has to quell the rising panic.

“How long?”

“Three, maybe five minutes,” Archie answers.

“Is she going to be alright?” Maud asks, but Hecate doesn’t answer, can’t answer. She can’t think about anything except Pippa, her clammy skin, her stillness, the long cut down her arm where the plant drew blood. It’s red and angry and steadily turning black, and Hecate doesn’t have time to deal with questions, even her own.  

“Maud, owl feather,” she says as she slides her arms under Pippa’s frame, lifting her up as she stands. “Ethel, Tiger’s hair, four bunches of it.”

“We saw some back toward the cabin,” Archie says. “I’ll help you.”

“I don’t need—“ Ethel starts, and Hecate nearly shouts,

“This is no time for competition!”

Ethel wilts but she doesn’t care, can’t care about anything but Pippa’s weight in her arms, the heat she can feel through their clothes.

“Meet me at the lake and _do not dawdle_."

They nod and scurry off and Hecate hesitates, only a split second, before transferring Mildred with her to the lake side.

Mildred jumps, a questioning look in her eyes that Hecate ignores as she quickly wades into the water. It’s freezing, pricks along her skin like needles but she needs to bring Pippa’s temperature down, fast.

She can hear Mildred behind her, running up the short pier, level with where she stands now, water up to her chest and Pippa nearly completely covered except for her head and knees. There’s no response, not even a shiver, and Hecate swallows down the terror, the _too late too late too late_ echoing in her head.

“What can I do, Miss Hardbroom?”

Mildred’s voice startles her, and she adjusts her grip on Pippa’s waist and shoulders. The water helps, keeps her lighter, but Hecate can still feel the strain on her back.

Closing her eyes briefly, she summons her cauldron from the cabin, along with a case of supplies.

“Lotus root,” she says, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. “One centimeter slices.”

Mildred nods and opens the case, all the materials neatly laid out and labeled. “How many?”

“Twelve.”

Mildred dutifully does as she’s told, bottom lip stuck between her teeth in concentration.

Hecate looks down at Pippa’s face, pale and pink and she feels sick, feels her heart pounding. Looks down and thinks of her words, echoing now so loudly between her ears,

_I don’t need you._

It was a lie, it’s always been a lie, but Pippa doesn’t know that, can’t know that, and Hecate feels like there’s acid in her throat, and she can hardly breathe.  

“I’m done,” Mildred says, and Hecate looks up just as Maud, Ethel, and Archie burst through the trees. They run up the pier, breathing hard, items in their hands, and Hecate wastes no time.

“Owl feather first, then three salamander eggs. In the case.”

Ethel snatches the feather from Maud, pushes Mildred out of the way and kneels in front of the cauldron, and it’s irresponsible and superstitious and ridiculous but Hecate can’t help the sharp, “No!” that bubbles up, Ethel’s hand poised over the cauldron.

“You said owl feather.”

Hecate swallows, thinks of Pippa, her faith, and prays. “Give it to Mildred.”

Ethel blinks and Mildred stammers and Hecate’s voice makes them all jump, her near frantic, “Do it, now!”

Ethel shifts out of the way and Mildred takes the feather as Maud picks out the salamander eggs.

Hecate walks her through the potion step by step. It isn’t particularly difficult, but it requires perfection - stirring three times clockwise, an exact number of Tiger’s Hair petals and slices of stem. Mildred’s hands shake but she does exactly as Hecate instructs, concentrated in a way Hecate has never seen her, not in class. Only when she’s saving the day.

Hecate pushes the thought back to deliberate over later. She’s shivering now, words starting to slur slightly, and she has to take deep breaths, each one burning her lungs.

Mildred finishes her part, and Hecate transfers herself and Pippa onto the pier, laying Pippa down gently. Her arm, where the terebachia cut her, is swollen and even blacker and Hecate yanks the cauldron close, summons a knife from the case and cuts quickly into her own hand, blood dripping into the potion.

The girls gasp and Ethel looks like she might be sick, and Hecate’s dimly aware of Archie explaining the use of blood in healing potions, but her focus is on stirring (four times clockwise, pause for 10, three counterclockwise, pause for 10) and then dipping her hand into the paste. She smears it over Pippa’s arm, over the cut, every part of her skin that’s dark and raised.

 _Come on,_ she thinks desperately, _please, please, please._

“Is it working?” Maud asks, but Hecate can’t answer, throat tight and eyes wide and wet, tears gathering that she dares not cry.

_I don’t need you._

Her stomach curls around itself in knots, chest tight and throat dry and she squeezes Pippa’s shoulder with her good hand.

“Come on, Pippa,” she murmurs. _I didn’t mean it_ , she thinks desperately. _I swear I didn’t mean it._

It’s a mantra she repeats, over and over in her head, aware of, but losing her grip on the students gathered around. Maud has tears in her eyes and Mildred is hovering over Pippa’s other shoulder.

Behind her, Ethel folds her arms across her chest. “Of course you can’t even make a simple healing salve to—”

“Shut up, Ethel!” Maud shouts, her voice shaky, and Archie takes her hand.

“Miss Hardbroom?” Mildred whispers, and she sound so terrified, looks so lost, and Hecate knows she should reassure her, knows what she should say but she keeps hearing her own voice, _I don’t need you I don’t need you I don’t need you_ , and she’s too afraid of what might come out if she lets it.  

 _Coward_ , she thinks, and drops her gaze from Mildred’s, stares down at Pippa’s arm, smeared with the salve.

“Please, Pippa,” she whispers. “Please don’t—” Her voice breaks, and she can feel the eyes of the students on her, feel their fear. She presses the back of her hand to Pippa’s forehead, relieved when at least her temperature has gone down.

And then, slowly, the swelling starts to fade. The black lines disappear, and Mildred points to it excitedly. “Look! It’s going away.”

“That’s good, right, Miss Hardbroom?” Maud asks.

Hecate manages a stiff nod, holds her breath.

It feels like hours before Pippa stirs, lips parting on a quiet moan and Hecate feels like her heart very well may beat out of her chest.

“Pippa? Pippa, can you hear me?”

Pippa groans again, a little louder, and swallows. “Hiccup?”

Hecate exhales sharply, clenching her jaw for a moment to keep the tears at bay.

“You’re alright,” she says, gripping Pippa’s hand, mindless of the students watching her do it. Mindless of the cold, the pain in her palm. She looks down and sees blood smeared between their hands.

Pippa blinks her eyes open, slightly more aware, and frowns. “Hecate?”

“It’s alright,” she repeats. “Don’t try to move.”

“What happened?”

“Terebachia,” she manages, her throat tight and mouth dry.

“You were showing us a fox den and it was hidden in the brambles,” Archie offers, “Nawal tried to stick her hand in the den and you pulled her back. It scratched your arm.”

Pippa scrunches her nose. “Well that’s hardly dignified.”

The students laugh but Hecate can’t stand the sound, their easy cheer, Pippa’s flippancy.

“Careless, and stupid,” she hisses. “You could have died.”

 _You almost died,_ she thinks, her mind scattered and still frantic. _I don’t need you._

Pippa sighs, pulls her hand from Hecate’s, and Hecate feels a sharp pain in her gut; deserved, she knows, but it almost winds her, makes her heart skip and shudder.

“Can you yell at me later?” Pippa says, a hint of steel to her voice, “I’ve got a pounding headache.”

Without a word, Hecate transfers them all back to camp, into the main room of her cabin. Outside, she can hear the clamor of nervous and frightened children, and knows she needs to give them answers; but something tugs at her, makes it nearly impossible for her to leave Pippa’s side.

She helps her onto the sofa, supporting her, careful not to touch her undoubtedly sore arm; and while Pippa isn’t paying attention, Hecate curls her fingers, cleaning Pippa’s wound and removing the blood from Pippa’s hand, unnoticed. The girls gather blankets and pillows and Maud brings Pippa a glass of water from the kitchen.

Pippa smiles tiredly and thanks her and Hecate ushers them all outside, save Mildred, leaving her with Pippa for all of three minutes while she informs everyone what’s happened, that Miss Pentangle will be fine but she needs strict rest for at least 12 hours.

“I expect you all to entertain yourselves, _quietly_ , while I tend to Miss Pentangle.”

The students nod, too stunned and worried to argue.

Across the clearing, Hecate sees Enid, looking more collected and relieved, and nods to her, a silent thanks that Enid seems to understand, and smiles back.

Hecate can’t smile. She can’t do anything but turn on her heel and disappear back into the cabin.

Mildred is sitting on the floor, talking quietly with Pippa, and she hesitates.

Pippa looks almost peaceful, happy, talking to Mildred, and Hecate has half a mind to let them stay that way. To hide herself away and try to get her emotions under control.

But Pippa needs fire and warmth and rest; she needs to dry off and new clothes and she’ll never get that with Mildred here.

Pursing her lips, Hecate moves to step forward when she hears Pippa’s voice, soft and almost hopeless, “Fear—fear can make her very cruel sometimes. But that’s all it is. It’s not your fault.”

Hecate clenches her jaw.

She hates it. Hates people talking about her behind her back, hates quiet whispers. Hates the assumption Pippa makes, even if it’s true. She hates that she’s told Mildred, of all people.

Hates that she’s so transparent, even still.

Hates that Pippa doesn’t seem to understand where that fear comes from.

Mildred starts to reply, but Hecate doesn’t let her finish. Waves a hand and transfers her out of the cabin, with the others, mid-sentence.

“What did you do that for?” Pippa demands, glaring up at her.

Hecate ignores her, stalking across the room to light the fire, her magic a bit wild, a bit raw as the flames lick up the inside of the chimney for a moment before settling.

She turns, and waves a hand over Pippa’s frame, a drying spell, before changing her clothes to a dry pair without asking.  

Pippa protests, but Hecate cuts her off, a biting, “You should refrain from using magic for at least 12 hours, until it’s certain the poison is out of your system.”

Pippa scowls. “I could have just changed the old fashioned way. Or would that injure your delicate sensibilities?”

Hecate flinches, covers it with a snide, “More likely you’d injure yourself.”

Even as she says it, she summons another blanket from the bedroom and spreads it over Pippa, her face pinched and Pippa’s words echoing in her head.

 _Fear makes her cruel_.

She never wanted to be cruel. Firm, and no-nonsense, with high expectations and little patience for excuses. She knows the students need discipline, need control, need to understand their magic is powerful and unpredictable and how to be in charge of it, not the other way around. She knows they need more than rainbows and songs and teachers who fall asleep mid-class, teachers who allow them to get away with their antics.

She wants them to be a little bit afraid—of disappointing her, of letting her down, of incurring a glare or a scolding or detention.

But she never wanted to be cruel. Never wanted any of them to fear her, the way she feared her mistress.

Hecate turns abruptly so Pippa can’t see the jump in her jaw, the shudder as she thinks of Broomhead’s cold hands, her sharp nails and sharper words. Her hand curled around Hecate’s wrist like a vice.

Her movements are jerky, slightly off, and she’s angry and terrified and relieved and exhausted and shivering, she realizes for the first time, she’s still so cold, and there’s a knot in her throat that won’t unwind, even with Pippa staring at her, clear eyed and irritated.

“It was an accident, you know,” Pippa says, pushing herself into a seated position, blankets piled in her lap. “I didn’t intentionally stick my hand in a pile of poison vines.”

Hecate purses her lips. “I fail to see how intent matters when the outcome is the same.”

Pippa huffs. “So I should have let my student risk her life?”

“If you had any kind of discipline at your school your students would know not to touch things without permission,” she snaps, and Pippa recoils.

“Do not make this about magic or discipline or the foundation of my school,” she says lowly. “Don’t insult my life’s work just because you’re angry about… whatever it is you’re angry about. In fact, what are you angry about?” she asks, folding her arms across her chest.

She winces, and quickly unfolds them, and Hecate’s chest burns at the flash of pain across her face, the way she stares for a moment at her arm before blinking, resettling.

“Well?”

Hecate doesn’t answer. Her clothes are still soaked, cold against her skin, and her hair feels heavy, a headache blooming at her temples. She needs to move, to dry off, but she feels rooted in place under Pippa’s stare, the expectant raise of her eyebrows.

As the silence drags, Pippa sighs, shoulders slumping tiredly. “Everything’s fine, Hecate. The students are safe, I’ll be fine, you got to show off your masterful potions skills in what I’m sure you made a teachable moment for—“

She doesn’t mean the sound to escape, a half-gasp, half-whimper as the words slam into her chest. She can’t breathe for a moment, wide-eyed and wounded.

Pippa freezes, then bites her lip, her expression softening. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—“

“Clearly you did,” Hecate says, but her voice wavers more than she’d like and she balls her hands into fists at her sides to keep them from shaking.

“I shouldn’t have said that. I know you wouldn’t—“

Hecate turns on her heel, too rattled to transfer but she has to get out, to get away from Pippa’s apologetic eyes and her soft voice and her words, echoing, their implication.

“Where are you going? Hecate?”

She doesn’t answer, strides out of the room and into the bedroom and shuts the door behind her, lets it take her weight. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to quell the pain in her chest, the sting behind her eyes, tries to even her breathing and calm her racing heart.

It’s too much, too many emotions, too much fear and hurt and she sees Pippa’s face, deathly pale, feels the weight of Pippa in her arms, slumped against her, the desperation and terror that curled in her gut and wouldn’t leave, still hasn’t, not entirely.

Pushing off the wall, she crosses to the foggy mirror on the other side of the room, stares at her reflection. She looks frightful, her hair half falling out, dress bunched and clinging in odd places, her skin whiter than usual; but she knows, to anyone else, she looks fine. A bit haphazard, perhaps, but the woman staring back at her looks the way she always does: looks calm and in control.

Looks that way to Pippa, apparently. Like it doesn’t matter.

Like she doesn’t care.

She supposes that’s her fault, or her father’s, or Miss Broomhead’s, or even her mother’s. Supposes if she tried harder, she could crack her own shell, show more and hide less.

But it’s been so long, too many years of cultivating a face that she shows to the world that she doesn’t know if she’d change even if she could. Doesn’t know that she’d want to.

Maybe, for Pippa.

But Pippa doesn’t want her. Pippa doesn’t know, doesn’t see her, the way Hecate always thought. The way she used to.

But then, that’s her fault, too.

Taking a deep breath, Hecate dries her clothes, her hair, her skin. She fixes her hair with a wave of her hand, and for the first time, remembers to check the watch around her neck. It’s fine, the protection spell she keeps around it held, and she breathes a soft sigh of relief, clutching the watch to her chest.

She tries to even her breathing to its soft ticks, to ground herself in its warmth and weight.

“Hecate?”

She turns, and finds Pippa halfway through the door, a blanket around her shoulders, frowning worriedly.

Hecate swallows tightly and turns away. “You should be resting.”

Pippa inches her way inside and closes the door softly behind her. “I can’t. Not when I know you’re upset.”

“I’m fine.”

Pippa sighs. “I know you’re not.”

“Evidentially you don’t know me as well as you think.”

Pippa bows her head and fiddles with the edges of the blanket as she sits down on the bed. “I deserve that,” she says quietly, looking up through her lashes. “But I am sorry. I know you were scared. I was just—angry that you’re angry.”

Hecate thinks of Pippa’s ashen face, her thready pulse; thinks of what would have happened had the potion failed.

She knows it didn’t—knows Pippa is alive and safe and well but her heart isn’t convinced, not yet, and she folds her arms across her chest, wishes she could contain it and everything it feels; everything it hurts.

“I wasn’t scared.”

Pippa sighs, heavy and almost sad. “Well. No, why would you—“

“I was terrified.”

The words pull at her chest, force their way out and she can see Pippa’s reflection in the mirror, sees her blink in surprise, her eyes wide and wet. She softens, her expression morphing into one of contrition.

“Hecate. Come here, please.”

She wavers, then crosses the room and sits gingerly on the edge of the bed. Pippa smiles softly and takes her hand.

Hecate can’t help the gasp of pain, or stop herself from pulling her hand back, cradling it to her chest. She’d forgotten completely the wound on her palm, and Pippa frowns, pulling Hecate’s wrist toward her.

“Let me see.”

“It’s fine, Pippa—“

Pippa cuts her off with a glower. “Let me see.”

Hecate sighs, but allows Pippa to pull her hand into her lap, and uncurls her fingers. Pippa gasps.

“Hecate, what—“

“The salve requires blood.”

“ _Frog’s_ blood,” Pippa says, “or a rat, or any animal—”

Hecate shakes her head. “Human blood is more effective, and quicker.” She swallows tightly. “There wasn’t time to—” Her voice catches and she pulls her hand back into her lap, curling her hand into a fist despite the sting.

Pippa stares at her, eyes wide and damp. “You didn’t have to do that,” she says softly.

Hecate stares down at her hand. “Of course I did.”

Pippa looks like she might cry at any moment, and it takes her a few tries to summon the words, a whispered, “You should heal it before it gets infected.”

Hecate nods, staring down at her hand.  She knows she should, but part of her wants the pain, likes it, the sting that grounds her in reality, the reality that Pippa is here and safe and whole.

But Pippa is watching her, her lip pulled between her teeth, and Hecate sighs, closes her hand, and when she opens it the scar is gone, as if it never happened.

She starts when Pippa lifts her wrist and presses a kiss to her skin, in the center of her palm. Hecate’s breath catches, the simple touch far too intimate, too tender, too gentle to be deserved.  But she can’t pull away, heart in her throat and the whisper of Pippa’s lips on her skin. She shivers, but it’s warmth that spreads through her, tingling and light.

She wants more.

So much more, it fills her from the inside, the wanting, the desire to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Pippa’s ear, to hold her face between her palms, to kiss and touch and love her the way she’s always wished.

For a moment, it feels like too much—like she might spill over, like the words might spill out, and she wants to let them.  Wants so badly to let go of the weight in her chest, the albatross she’s carried so long, since they were girls.

 _I don’t need you_.

Her own words crack the daydream, and she pulls her hand back, stung.

Pippa deserves better. Better than her, better than a woman who can’t even apologize. Who barely knows how to love.

“Hecate,” Pippa starts, but Hecate rises swiftly, puts the room between them and interrupts, a curt,

“You should rest. I’ll attend to the students.”

“Hecate,” Pippa tries, again, but there’s no point. Whatever she has to say, whatever comfort she wants to give, Hecate doesn’t deserve it.  Wouldn’t know what to do with it if she did.

“A simple alert spell will be fine should you require anything.”

Pippa huffs, exasperated. “Hecate, I’m trying to—”

She doesn’t hear the end of the sentence, transferring out of the cabin into the clearing. For once, the students appear to be doing what they’re told, eating lunch, reassured by nothing more than her word that the headmistress is well. Hecate envies them. Their laughter, their ease.

Only Mildred is out of place, prodding her food around on a paper plate while Maud and Enid and Archie talked animatedly next to her.  

She looks up and catches Hecate’s gaze, and Hecate can see the confusion there, the lingering fear, the exhaustion, and she feels a spike of guilt ratchet down her spine. She put that look there. She pushed Mildred to make that potion, and while Hecate knows it was well within her capabilities, she’s not certain Mildred knew. Not sure Mildred believes even still.

But Hecate can’t reassure her. Not now. Not when her own emotions are too close, fizzing at the surface, and she transfers away again, deeper into the forest, where it’s quiet and still.

She can hear birds and bugs and the rustle of the trees in the wind, but she’s too far from camp to hear the chatter. The silence soothes her, just a little.

With no one around, she leans her weight against an old, towering tree, and breathes.  Deep, slow breaths, fills her lungs with the cool, clean air and shuts her eyes, tries not to see Pippa, motionless in her arms.

She flinches, and her magic feels like static, hums around her too loudly, too forward. She needs to expel some of it, she knows, but when she looks down at her hands they’re trembling violently.

Hecate curls her fingers into fists and tries to focus. Control is what she needs. Control over her magic, over her body, over her stupid, reckless heart.

_You’re nothing without discipline. An amateur at best. What little talent you have is wasted on your puerile emotions. You need control._

Hecate leans her head back against the tree and tries to breathe through the rising panic in her throat. The voice sounds so real, so close, though she knows it’s just in her head.

It’s been decades, but the words haven’t faded. Nothing Miss Broomhead taught her has faded, though she’s done her best to set it aside, to push it back as far as she can, away from her daily life, away from her own students. But it creeps in now and then, slips past her defenses and it’s all she can do to quell it, to keep all that anger inside.

_You are a disgrace to the name of Hallow._

Squeezing her eyes shut, Hecate forces herself to take one deep breath, then another, then another. When she’s steady enough, she raises her hand and conjures a flame in the palm of her hand, and puts it out. Flame, out. Flame, out. Flame, out, until her magic starts to settle.

 _I don’t need you_.

The flame in her hand sparks, licks up her arm and she flinches, clamps her hand into a fist to put it out.

The ground feels unsteady, her head spinning, and nothing she does seems to calm her racing heart. She’s forced to sit, to brace herself against the tree, head down as she tries to gulp in air.

Pippa is fine, she’s safe. The girls are safe. Pippa’s students are safe.

She repeats it to herself over and over, but the dizziness doesn’t fade. She can’t quite breathe, not enough air in her lungs, and she tries again to settle her magic. Flame, out. Flame, out. Flame, out.

She’s so focused on her magic she doesn’t hear the rustle in the trees, doesn’t see the dryad until she’s crouched right in front of her, large eyes wide from behind her hair.

Hecate startles, gasping, and jumps when the dryad— _her_ dryad—reaches out a chubby hand. Hecate hesitates, then slowly offers her own hand. The dryad takes it, curls her fingers around Hecate’s palm, and Hecate can feel the calming magic instantly. It’s soft and warm and unlike anything she’s ever felt before. It flows through her, foreign but welcome, fills her up with lightness and Hecate feels her eyes sting, tears unbidden.

The dryad says nothing, doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, just holds her hand. Despite herself, her thoughts seem to calm, to slow. Broomhead’s voice begins to vanish, images of Pippa’s pale face replaced by those of her smile, her laughter. Her heart starts to settle, whirling voices in her head fading away, one by one, until only her own voice remains, and even that is quiet. Careful.

Her magic calms, too, settles in her veins, sleepy and content. It’s like a drug, whatever the dryad’s done to her, but it doesn’t feel vicious. She doesn’t feel violated or out of control; instead, she feels calmer, _in_ control—of herself, of her emotions, of her magic.

Part of her wants to ask how.  Why and how and why her, why share this obviously carefully guarded secret. Why trust her. Why help.

The dryad seems to know, and coos softly at her. She reaches out, prodding Hecate gently in the chest, over her heart.

“He-cat-e,” she says, the word awkward on her lips.

Hecate nods, and the dryad smiles shyly from behind her hair.  

When she lets go of Hecate’s hand, she doesn’t feel bereft like she thought she might. Still feels centered.

Doesn’t feel quite so alone.

The dryad tilts her head, a question, and Hecate nods. Takes a deep breath, and closes her eyes.

When she opens them, the dryad is gone. Nothing in the forest indicates she was ever there, but Hecate knows.

Swallowing, she tests her magic a few more times—flame, out, flame, out—until she’s convinced it’s back under her control.

Rising on steady feet, she takes several deep breaths before transferring back to the cabin.

The students are still focused on their lunch, still talking animatedly, as if nothing is wrong. As if nothing happened. Hecate looks to the cabin, where Pippa is resting, and her heart aches to go to her. To see for herself that she’s alright.

But she knows it’s too much. Knows the calm she feels now will vanish, knows she isn’t ready to face Pippa again, not yet.

So she gathers the students instead, tells them to clean up and begin working on their projects. She stays outside, available to answer questions, even as her eyes flicker constantly to the cabin. Even as she wishes she could be somewhere else.

 


	6. or what it is like in words (part two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- see part one  
> \- thank you for all the comments on the last chapter! i promise i'll reply to them as soon as possible, but i wanted to get this up for y'all ♥

It’s a long, slow afternoon, and by the time dinner is over and the students have begun to settle in their rooms, Hecate is exhausted. Her muscles are stiff and tense as she clicks her fingers to change into her nightclothes and robe, and she rubs her shoulder, wincing at the knot she can feel under her skin.

“Are you alright?” Pippa asks, sitting up in bed, already in her own dressing gown, hair a bit mussed from sleeping on and off throughout the afternoon.

But she’s awake now, watching Hecate with concern.  

“I’m fine,” she answers automatically, then pauses. She’s tired, and a bit shaky. Her feet ache and all she really wants is to sleep, just one night. She remembers Pippa’s words, her request; catches her eyes in the mirror, the open expression on her face, and sighs. “I am… sore,” she settles on, quirking her lips. “It appears there may be _some_ point to Miss Drill’s physical education classes.”

Pippa smiles and pats the bed next to her. “Sit down.”

Hecate frowns, and Pippa sits up more, crossing her legs and scooting close to the edge of the bed.

“Sit,” she says again.

Hecate does as she’s told, but shakes her head, trying not to wince as it pulls on her muscles. “You should be resting.”

“I am resting,” Pippa says, hands suddenly on Hecate’s arms as she maneuvers her to sit on the edge, facing away from her. Hecate tries not to shiver at her touch, her hands sliding up her arms to her shoulders to brush her hair aside.

“Pippa, what—”

“Trust me?”

The question throws her, said so light, and yet it holds so much, feels so heavy in the air between them. Hecate swallows, curling her fingers into loose fists in her lap.

“Of course,” she says softly, swears she hears Pippa’s sharp exhale of relief before she’s distracted by the hands settling on her shoulders, fingers moving in soft circles over her robe.

“Is this okay?” Pippa asks, breath ghosting over the back of Hecate’s neck.

Part of her wants to say no.  Wants to stand up and flee the room, the touch, Pippa’s soft voice. But more than that she doesn’t want it to stop. Never wants to lose the gentle pressure of Pippa’s fingertips along her shoulders, the press of Pippa’s knees against her back.

She doesn’t dare speak, fears she might say all that, if Pippa asks the right question, so she merely nods, laying her hands flat against her thighs.

“I used to do this for my mother,” Pippa says, her tone casual. “She always spent weekends in the garden, and by Sunday she’d be so sore she could barely stand.”

Hecate swallows, hesitates, isn’t certain she wants to bring the past into the room. But she wants Pippa to know she remembers. Wants her to know that she’s never forgotten a single thing about her, about her family, about that summer she spent at the Pentangle’s.

It was the happiest she can remember being, after her mother died.

But that seems like too much, too honest, so she hedges, “They were beautiful. The gardens.”

Pippa stills for a moment, then resumes pressing her thumbs into the knot of muscles carefully. “You remember them?”

Her tone is too light, too curious. Hecate nods. “She had wisteria vines. They have always been my favorite flower, but I had never seen one in person before.”

She can hear Pippa’s smile. “She gave you one to press in a book. I can still remember the look on your face.”

Hecate flushes slightly. “I wasn’t accustomed to receiving gifts from adults.”

Pippa’s hands slide over her back briefly, and Hecate’s eyes flutter closed. She tries to distance herself, to pretend it isn’t Pippa sitting behind her, isn’t Pippa touching her, so close to and yet not at all in the way she’s always wanted.

There are too many layers between them, layers Hecate knows she keeps wrapped around herself. But she doesn’t think she could bear anything else, to be any closer to Pippa without breaking apart, without admitting how she truly feels.

And Pippa is just being kind.

It’s what she tells herself, over and over again, so much so that she misses the question, only notices when Pippa’s hands still and she leans over Hecate’s shoulder.

“Hecate?”

“Apologies. I was just… thinking.”

It sounds as ridiculous as it is, but Pippa lets it go. She sits back, resumes trying to ease the tension from Hecate’s muscles.

“About that summer?”

It’s as good excuse as any, so Hecate nods. “Yes. It was very... pleasant.”

Pippa laughs. “It was _fun_ , Hiccup.”

Hecate snorts delicately. “Alright, fine. _Fun_ ,” she says, with as much disdain as she can muster, and Pippa huffs.

“It wasn’t such a bad thing, was it? We swam in the lake, and flew all around town, and worked on our summer projects together.”

“Your father took us to the mountains, to collect fireweed for my potion,” Hecate remembers. “It was very kind of him.”

“He adored you,” Pippa says, and Hecate can’t help the scoff that escapes. “He did!” Pippa insists. “Both my parents did.”

Hecate sobers on the past tense, and she thinks Pippa must feel it, must notice the air shift because she sighs and shakes her head.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Berate yourself.”

Hecate hisses when she hits a particularly sore spot, and Pippa immediately eases off. She says nothing, torn between denying it or moving on when Pippa says carefully, “They were angry with you, yes. But I think they were more disappointed in me. That I didn’t go after you.”

Hecate frowns. “I don’t see what good that would have done.”

“Maybe none,” Pippa says honestly. “But sometimes—” She stops, and her hands settle on Hecate’s shoulders, thumbs brushing back and forth. Hecate can barely feel it through her clothes, and she wants more. “Sometimes I wonder. If I could have convinced you to stay. If I’d tried—”

“Pippa—”

“I just. I was so angry,” she says, quickly, like she’s been holding it all in too long. “I didn’t understand how we went from being best friends to you hating me.”

As badly as she doesn’t want to have this conversation, she especially doesn’t want to have it without being able to see Pippa’s face, to read her emotions so she turns on the bed until she can face her, the way she should have so many years ago.

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” she says gently. “I was convinced that—”

_You didn’t want me._

_You didn’t love me._

_I wasn’t enough._

“—I was doing the right thing. For you.”

Pippa huffs, but her eyes are wet and her hands have fallen to her lap, folded together nervously. “According to whom? Because it certainly wasn’t me.”

Hecate licks her lips. Stares at Pippa and for a moment sees a pale, ashen face, sees streaks of water on her cheek, sees dead eyes. She blinks it away, reaches for Pippa’s hand without thought, without care—needs to feel her warm and safe. Her finger slides over the pulse point in Pippa’s wrist, just to make sure. To ground herself in the steady thrum, and she knows Pippa could have died. Knows what her last words would have been.

But it slowly sinks in, all the things she hasn’t said. Things that, perhaps, Pippa needs to hear. To move on or to move forward, she doesn’t know, but she owes Pippa that, at least.

“No,” she agrees softly, “It wasn’t you. But I believed…I believed that you would be better off without me. I believed you’d be… happier.”

It’s as close to the truth as she’s willing to admit, and Pippa’s eyes widen as she shakes her head.

“That’s nonsense. You meant everything to me.”

Her heart skips on the past tense, and she doesn’t know what to say. If she should argue the point or admit her insecurities—but it feels too much like blaming Pippa for her decision, and there’s really only one answer she can give.

“I’m...I’m sorry,” she says, eyes dropping to their hands. “I’m sorry. For...that,” she says, “And for last night. I—” She clears her throat, stumbling, but Pippa gives her time, gives her space, waits without impatience. “I’d prefer not to make excuses,” she starts, but Pippa shakes her head and squeezes her hand.

“I asked you to tell me how you’re feeling,” Pippa reminds her. “That doesn’t change when we’re fighting.” She quirks her lips. “ _Especially_ when we’re fighting.”

Hecate nods, parsing her words carefully, “The...game, yesterday,” she says, “and then the Nightwing, it...unsettled me. I understand your reasoning, about being perhaps more....open with my students. But my mother is….” She trails off, fumbling for the word.

“Sacred,” Pippa offers, and Hecate nods slowly.

“Yes. And I was… embarrassed.”

“About what? The nightmare?”

“The girls shouldn’t have to hear—”

“They don’t know what they heard,” Pippa says. “They don’t know what happened.” Pippa pauses, chewing her lip a moment before she asks, “How long…?”

Hecate shrugs. “Since last term, on and off.”

Pippa forces a smile. “No wonder you’re a grouch,” she says, but it’s light and teasing and Hecate huffs, tries for a smile of her own.

But it dies quickly, as she thinks of the stricken look on Pippa’s face, the tears she didn’t even bother to hide.

“I’m sorry,” she says again. “What I said, I—I was—I didn’t mean—”

Pippa nods, hesitates, then asks gently, “Why did you say it?”

Hecate looks away. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do.”

“I—” she starts, stops, tries to gather the floundering thoughts in her head. “It’s… been a long time since… I’m not accustomed to—” She exhales sharply, frustrated. “You care too much,” she says, the words out of her mouth before she can stop them. “And you shoudn’t.”

Pippa studies her, then says, “I think I’ll decide who I care about and how much.”

“Pippa—”

“No, Hecate,” she interrupts, gentle but firm. “You made that decision for me once; you don’t get to do it again.” She pauses, a flash of something on her face that Hecate can’t name before she takes a sharp breath and says,  “If this friendship isn’t what you want, I’ll respect that. But I’m not about to let you push me away just because you’re scared.”

“I’m not—” she tries, but Pippa raises her eyebrows pointedly.

“No?” she says, and when Hecate doesn’t respond, sighs, admits, “Because I am.”

Hecate swallows. It never occurred to her that Pippa might be afraid—of anything. That she might have as much trepidation about their relationship as Hecate does, and her voice is almost shaky when she asks tentatively, “What are you scared of?”

Pippa’s smile cracks something in her chest. “That you’ll leave me.”

 _Again_ goes unsaid, but Hecate hears it, and flinches away.

“I don’t want to,” she says, her voice barely audible. “I want—”

 _You,_ she thinks, _always you_ , but she isn’t brave enough. She looks away, down at their hands still tangled together.

She wants to be better. Better for Pippa. Better for her students. Better for Ada, for her school. But it’s a heavy weight, undetachable from a cold voice:

 _This will make you better_ , she used to say.

Hecate shudders, pulls into herself and Pippa lets her go; but a moment later Pippa’s hand settles on her arm, just above her elbow.

“Hey,” she murmurs. “It’s okay.”

Hecate shakes her head—none of it is okay—but Pippa brushes her thumb back and forth over Hecate’s robe.

“It will be,” she promises. “I know—” She pauses, chews on her lip. “You’ve been through a lot, Hecate. And not just in these past few months.” Dropping her hands back to her lap, Hecate tries not to miss the warmth. “Maybe... maybe you never really processed some of those things. Maybe you didn’t get the chance.”

Hecate nods, fingers itching to reach out. “Maybe,” she says softly.  

Pippa meets her gaze and smiles so softly. “I told you. You’re forgiven.”

Hecate inhales sharply. “Am I?”

She thinks of Sybil’s teary eyes, the girls’ frozen forms, her mother’s cold hand.

Pippa nods. “Always.”

She wants to believe her. Wants to trust that what Pippa says is true. Wishes she could believe that Pippa alone could absolve her, all the things she’s gotten wrong.

But she can’t, and Hecate knows that. Knows she has amends to make that Pippa can’t forgive, and she thinks of her girls, her precious, precious girls, of Mildred—brave and loyal and so, so _kind_. In ways Hecate isn’t and never has been. In ways she isn’t sure she knows how to be.  

“I’m not certain I deserve that,” she admits. “At least not—” She stops.

 _Not from you_ , she thinks. _Not from them._

“Hecate,” Pippa says, shaking her head. “You _saved my life_ today. That isn’t a small thing.”

“It doesn’t change—”

“What you said? No, it doesn’t. But I—” She stops, hesitates, seems to change her mind. “You’re important to me. More important than a mistake. And I know I push too hard sometimes, and that’s my fault, I—”

“Pippa—”

“You’re allowed to have boundaries, Hecate,” Pippa says. “Especially in light of the last few months. I can’t imagine how that potion—”

Hecate shakes her head. “It wasn’t their fault,” Hecate says, looks away from Pippa’s frown, thinks of the look on Sybil’s face, the tears she pretended not to see, and swallows tightly. “They wanted me to be kinder.”

“What?”

“The girls. I said something to Sybil I shouldn’t have. I made her feel…” Hecate trails off. “That’s why they made the potion.”

Pippa moves her hand to Hecate’s thigh, and Hecate feels it burn through the fabric of her skirt, and tries not to tense.

“Drugging you wasn't the answer,” Pippa says; but Hecate’s become less and less convinced of that.

“Can you think of another way I’d have listened?”

Pippa watches her for a long moment. “I don’t know,” she says finally, honestly, and Hecate’s pulse skips with shame. “But that doesn’t make it okay. What if it had been me?”

Hecate frowns. “What do you mean?”

“What if they’d used the personality potion on me? Or on Ada?”

“They wouldn’t—”

“If they had.”

Hecate remains silent. There’s nothing she can say, no excuse she can make. Had it been anyone but her, she knows, the punishment would have been severe. And Pippa knows it, too.

“You’d have them expelled.”

“Your point?”  

“Why do you assume your life, your consent, is worth less than ours?”

She has no answer. Nothing she’s willing to admit, no insecurity or self-loathing she’s willing to lay bare. But her eyes sting, and she feels overwhelmed, feels exhausted, just wants one night of dreamless sleep, of peace. One day where she doesn’t seem to hate everything and everyone, including herself.

“Hiccup,” Pippa says softly.

She doesn’t look up, she can’t, only manages the question that’s been pressing against her teeth for weeks, for months, for years.

“What if they’re right?”

Pippa’s thumb brushes over her wrist. “What if who’s right?”

“The girls. What if I’m not helping them. What if I’m—”

The word catches and she bites down on her lip, stares at the floor, feels her eyes prick and well and she hates it, feels weak and vulnerable and wrung out and then Pippa is grasping her arms with both hands, squeezing gently.

“You aren’t,” she says firmly. “You aren’t hurting them, Hecate. They know you have their best interests at heart.”

“How could they?”

“Because you show them every day. You work with them, you protect them. You make them better witches.”

Hecate flinches, old words resounding in her head. A scorching heat along the back of her neck, an angry puff of air.

She squeezes her eyes shut and drops her head but the image won’t fade, the shadow cast over her frame.

“Hecate?” Pippa asks, alarm coloring her tone, and Hecate swallows, and breathes, and manages somehow to look her in the eye when she admits,

“That’s what Miss Broomhead used to say. That she was making me a better witch.”

Pippa’s expression falters, and Hecate sees the spike of curiosity, followed by confusion, followed by fear. She eventually settles into something neutral, but it’s off, strained as she tries for light,

“I heard she was your tutor. People speak very highly of her.”

It’s a question, one Hecate has never answered.  She’s been approached about Broomhead before—what it was like to work with her, if she’s really as brilliant as they say, if she’s as terrible, or as wise. She always holds her tongue, redirects the conversation, flat out transfers away from people who only want to know for the sake of gossip, the sake of knowing.

Pippa is different. She knows, can see it in her gaze, feel it in the way her hands tremble slightly against her arms.

“They shouldn’t,” she says, and Pippa’s face crumples, her fingers trailing down to Hecate’s wrists, curling over her palms.

“There were rumors,” she whispers. “Horrible things, I—” She blinks and her eyes water and Hecate resists the urge to brush her cheek.  “It was true?”

She sounds guilt-ridden. Sounds horrified and broken and disturbed and ashamed, and Hecate knows why.  Remembers once, decades ago, at a conference in London, approaching Pippa. She doesn’t know why she did it. Doesn’t know what she expected. There was no way out from under Broomhead’s control, not at that time, and it was stupidly dangerous to involve Pippa at all.

But she’d wanted—needed—to see her, to hear her voice, to maybe find some bright spot in all the dark.

But Pippa had turned her away. Terse and unsympathetic, she’d barely given Hecate the chance to say hello before she transferred away, and Hecate never tried again.

She spent another seven years with Broomhead after that.

“She taught me everything I know,” Hecate says instead, staring down at their hands. “Everything I can do, everything I am is because of her.”

Pippa squeezes her fingers and shakes her head firmly. “You didn’t need her, Hiccup. You never needed her to be the witch you are.”

Hecate swallows. “I can’t believe that.”

“Why not?”

She has to purse her lips, has to settle herself before she can look up, before she can ask, barely a whisper, “Because then what was the point? If I didn’t learn from her, if I can’t use her teachings to help my students then…” Her voice breaks, and she looks away, ashamed of the emotion, the thoughts, everything; but she presses on, forces herself to finish,  “Then it was for nothing. All of that— Nothing.” She can’t help it when she looks at Pippa imploringly, can’t help the desperation in her tone when she says hoarsely, “I don’t want to be her, Pippa.”

“You aren’t,” Pippa insists, her voice choked and wet. Hecate sniffs, and Pippa lurches forward, wrapping her arms around Hecate’s neck and pulling her close. Hecate stiffens, but Pippa doesn’t seem to care, running her hand over Hecate’s back as she murmurs, “Sweetheart, I promise.”

Hecate cracks at the endearment, burying her face in Pippa’s neck, allows her arms to come up and hold just as tightly.  

“You are nothing like that woman,” Pippa says fiercely. After a few moments, she pulls back, holding Hecate’s shoulders firmly. “You would never do what she did, not to anyone, let alone your students.”

Hecate wants to protest—that she could, that it’s inside her, somewhere, that capacity to hurt.

But Pippa refuses to let her, cupping Hecate’s cheek in her palm and pressing their foreheads together. “You aren’t like her,” she promises. “You never could be. You have too much heart.”

Hecate shakes her head, finds her fingers curled in the fabric of Pippa’s robe. She takes a shuddering breath, feels Pippa's breath over her cheeks, her nose.

“Pippa…”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.”

“But you want me to.”

“I want you to if you want to. I don’t want to push you into something you’re uncomfortable with.”

Hecate almost smirks. “I’m always uncomfortable.”

But Pippa shakes her head, squeezing her hands. “Please don’t be. Not here. Not with me.”

She tries to remember the last time she felt truly comfortable. Truly at ease. At Cackle’s, for the most part; but there’s always a hint of tension, of anticipation, waiting for any quiet peace to be broken. She thinks about her teas with Ada and nights spent with Morgana curled up against her back.

But she thinks the last time she really felt completely calm, completely at ease, was with Pippa. When they were children. When they used to sneak out at night to watch the meteor showers. How freeing it felt, how warm, Pippa’s arm pressed against hers, and how much she loved her, even then.

Thinks of how she wrecked it all; or maybe not. Maybe she saved them both. At the very least, she thinks, she saved Pippa. Somehow, even a little.

She thinks of Broomhead’s face, leering. Her nails, digging into Hecate’s shoulder.

Her cheek stings.

“Hecate?”

Pippa’s hand on her arm startles her, and she wrenches it away, expects it to burn.

“Are you alright?”

 _No,_ she thinks, but it’s too much.

“I was talking but you didn’t hear me,” Pippa says, without blame, just concern heavy in her tone. “Where did you go?”

Part of her wants to tell. Wants to open her mouth and let those years out, lay them down for other ears to pass judgement; to absolve her or condemn. She wants to rid herself of their weight, thinks perhaps if anyone could lighten that burden, it would be Pippa.

After all these years, still Pippa.

But another, louder, frightened part of her doesn’t know. Doesn’t know what happens after. Who she is without her secrets, kept so close that to touch any of them would be to touch a part of her she’s kept buried for so long. And she isn’t ready. Can’t, as much as she wishes she could, to be that open. Not here, not now.

Not when it could easily end so badly.

Again.

“Hiccup?”

Pippa watches her in the dim light, searching for something on her face, and Hecate swallows, shakes her head.

“I can’t.”

She ducks her head, waits for Pippa’s anger, her disappointment. Waits for her to turn away, shunted. Waits to hurt her the way she always seems to be hurting her—by being herself.

Something soft touches her cheek, and she opens her eyes to see Pippa, brushing the backs of her knuckles over Hecate’s face, feather light.

“That’s okay,” she whispers, the ghost of a smile on her lips. “That’s absolutely okay.”

Hecate inhales sharply. Her voice, and the gentle touch, and her honest eyes too much, too real.

“Is it?”

Pippa nods, pulls her hand away to reach down, lacing her fingers through Hecate’s.

“It really is.”

Hecate nods, feels something in her chest lift away and vanish. The knot in her chest that seems perpetual unwinds just a little, and she doesn’t think about it at all when she wraps her arms around Pippa’s shoulders and presses her face into Pippa’s neck.

Pippa startles, makes a familiar squeaking noise that makes Hecate smile, lips curved up against Pippa’s skin, and she tightens her hold when Pippa brings her arms up around Hecate’s back and presses her closer.

“Thank you,” she whispers, sound muffled by Pippa’s shoulder; but Pippa hears her, always seems to hear her, and cups a hand over the back of Hecate’s head, holds her tight.

She isn’t certain how long they stay that way, curled against each other; but it’s long enough for Hecate’s neck to cramp and her arms to feel tired, and it’s with reluctance that she finally pulls back, meets Pippa’s watery gaze with what she’s sure is a similar expression.

Clearing her throat, she drops her hands to her lap and casts a glance near the door, unsure what to say.

“We should probably check on the girls,” Pippa says, saving her, as always.

Hecate nods. “I’ll do it.” She glances at Pippa with some guilt—for burdening her, especially when she’s supposed to be recovering. “You need the rest.”

Pippa huffs. “I’m _fine_ , Hecate,” she promises. “Besides, I’ve been cooped up in here most of the day. It’ll do me good to see them.”

Hecate purses her lips. “If you’re certain.”

Leaning forward, Pippa busses a kiss to her cheek before she stands, summoning her dressing robe.

Hecate knows what she’s doing—knows she’s finding an excuse to give Hecate a moment to herself, to gather her thoughts, to resettle. And she’s grateful, so grateful, for the way Pippa smiles at her.

Pippa’s hand is on the doorknob when Hecate realizes it isn’t enough—that she’s apologized, yes, and that she’s forgiven, but there’s something else, something more, and she stalls Pippa with her name.

Pippa turns back, looks at her curiously, and it takes Hecate a long minute to summon the courage, the words in the right order, to keep her tone soft when she admits,  

“I never hated you.”

Pippa’s eyes widen, at the words or the non-sequitur Hecate doesn’t know, can’t consider, not with the way her own heart is thundering in her ears.

Pushing on, she forces herself to holds Pippa’s gaze as she says, “I didn’t leave because I hated you. Even when we weren’t speaking, I never hated you.” She takes a deep breath. “And I do…need you.”

Pippa’s lip wobbles and her eyes are bright as she clutches her pyjamas to her chest. She swallows, and looks down for a moment, and when she meets Hecate’s gaze her smile is so luminous.

“Thank you, Hiccup,” she whispers.

Hecate nods, and Pippa sniffs and quickly excuses herself, adorably flustered, and Hecate smiles slightly at the closed door, thinks perhaps maybe things will be okay, in time.

\--

One of her silent alarms goes off, a student out of bed, and Hecate flicks back the covers and throws her dressing gown on over her clothes.

Transferring outside, she spies a lone figure immediately, sitting in the dark by the burnt out fire. She can’t make out the girl, but somehow she knows.

Instead of transferring, she walks the short distance to the center of the clearing. Still, Mildred jumps at her voice, whirling to face her with a guilty expression.

“What part of ‘stay in the cabin’ was so difficult for you to follow?” she demands, but her voice lacks bite. She’s too tired, too wrung out for a true scolding, and instead arches an eyebrow, waiting.

Mildred shuffles her feet in the dirt. “I couldn’t sleep.” And then, “Sorry, Miss Hardbroom.”

“Don’t be sorry, be b—” she starts, but the words catch in her throat; she hears them in a different voice, low and sinister, feels a phantom hand on her shoulder.

“Miss Hardbroom?”

Hecate shakes her head. “You should have stayed inside,” she says, even as she sits down gingerly next to Mildred on one of the logs.

“Maud was snoring,” she says, with a smile and a slight giggle that makes Hecate’s heart lift. Such a silly thing, in all the black. “And, I like the stars.”

Hecate follows her gaze up, constellations clearly visible, the sky cloudless and deep. She thinks of Pippa, of nights spent sneaking out much like Mildred is now, to whisper stories of far away planets and distant galaxies.

“So do I,” she admits, more to herself, but Mildred turns and stares at her, and Hecate shifts under her gaze.

Mildred hesitates a moment, seems to be debating with herself, before she finally looks away, down at the dirt.

“Why did you have me make the potion instead of Ethel?”

Hecate knew she would ask. Knew, somehow, that she wouldn’t get out of it. She supposes, after everything, Mildred deserves the truth.

But the silence grows thick, and for a long while, Hecate can’t think of what to say, of how to say it; doesn’t even realize she’s been quiet so long until Mildred sighs and stands up.

“I’ll go to bed now. Sorry again, Miss Hardbroom.”

She sounds dejected, confused, but more than that, Hecate thinks, she sounds lonely. Sitting in the cold away from her friends, the odd one out, like Hecate was.

Is.

Will always be.

But Mildred doesn’t have to suffer the same, and Hecate isn’t sure if it’s the stress of the day or her own traitorous heart, touching common ground with Mildred Hubble that makes her say,

“It’s a superstition.”

Mildred pauses and turns back, and Hecate can feel her frown. Hecate looks up at the sky.

“Ridiculous nonsense, of course. But many believe that in order to produce a perfect healing potion, one’s motivations must be pure of heart.” She hesitates, then adds quietly, gravely, “Ethel would care more about impressing me than saving Miss Pentangle.”

Mildred sits back down next to her.

“You could have asked Maud.”

She could have. Perhaps should have, as she knows Maud is good with potions, strong with most magic.

“Yes,” she says, and Mildred flinches, and Hecate realizes Mildred thought the same, expects her to say the same. Instead, she catches Mildred’s gaze, says meaningfully, “But I didn’t.” And then, a bit grudgingly, she adds, “You did well today, Mildred. Thank you.”

Mildred beams. Her smile lights up her face, and Hecate thinks of Pippa at her age, thinks of herself, awkward and gangly and trying so, so hard to be the best.

To be better.

And she realizes, for the first time, she doesn’t want that for Mildred.

Doesn’t want Mildred to become her.

She lets her lips quirk up in the smallest of smiles.

“Thanks, Miss Hardbroom,” Mildred whispers, a secret just between them.

Hecate nods, then narrows her eyes. “Now go to bed.”

Mildred laughs softly. “Yes, Miss Hardbroom.”


	7. for this, let gardens grow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- See part one  
> \- Thank you so much to everyone who read, liked, reblogged, or commented on this monstrosity! I'm so grateful to you all. ♥

****Given the number of distractions during the week, their projects go remarkably well. Not quite up to Hecate’s standards, but most are thoughtful, inventive, or at the very least, accurate.

Ethel is of course smug, confident she’ll win as she relays perfect, if slightly dull, instructions on how to locate Tiger’s hair in a dense brush. Hecate resists the urge to roll her eyes, and purses her lips when she hears Archie’s muttered, “She didn’t even find it, I did.”

Hecate says nothing, simply nods, and braces herself for Mildred’s presentation. She’s chosen to write about dryads, and gives a clumsy but passionate report on why they should be left alone and the ethics of encouraging dialogue with a species that wants to stay hidden.

She can’t know all of the conversation that occurred between Hecate and Pippa earlier in the week, and Hecate keeps glancing at Pippa to make sure she’s alright. But she doesn’t seem offended, doesn’t seem upset at all, and claps loudly for Mildred when she’s done, a bright smile on her face. If it’s false, it fools Hecate as well.

Thankfully, Felicity’s presentation is remarkable. She’d clearly done her research this time, and gives a demonstration of how to differentiate crow from raven feather, their unique properties and uses, and ramifications of confusing the two.

“For example,” she says, “If you add crow feather rather than raven feather to a simple anti-coughing potion…” Hecate considers stopping her, but the students look intrigued, and, well, she’s far enough away to avoid the fallout. Felicity drops the feather in the small cauldron and jumps back, just as it bubbles up, bubbles over, and explodes a foul, yellow goop everywhere within a five foot radius.

The students in the ‘splash zone’ groan, wiping their faces and knees off with their shirts, a round of complaints circulating as the rest of the students laugh. Mildred and Enid, of course, immediately begin throwing the goop at each other, and even Hecate has to hide her smirk when Enid “misses” Maud and hits Ethel square in the face.

She gasps, indignant and hauty as she complains and turns to Hecate, who merely arches her eyebrows. “There’s a washroom on the ground floor of the cabin, Miss Hallow, I suggest you make use of it.”

Ethel bites back a retort and stomps off, and the students erupt with laughter, throwing more of the harmless but disgusting goo around the circle. They’re careful not to hit either Hecate or Pippa, and it’s only a few minutes before Hecate calls them back to order and insists they finish the presentations.

Some are better than others, and by the time they’re finished, Hecate is almost pleased to award Felicity the extra credit, to everyone’s surprise. Ethel in particular looks consternated and offended, and Mildred positively delighted. Felicity looks dumbstruck, and sits with her mouth open for several moments before Hecate reminds her to close it.

She gulps and nods and says “Thank you, Miss Hardbroom,” and as far as Hecate can tell, doesn’t stop talking about her victory over Ethel for the rest of the morning.

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Hecate watches as they spend their break time playing board games in the house, sitting around the fire, even practicing simple spells in the clearing. Enid lights no less than three shrubs on fire, and Matthew falls out of a tree (again) but remains thankfully unharmed.

Nawal and Archie race on their broomsticks around the camp, cheered on by the others, and it’s only Pippa that keeps her from barking at them to stop.

“Let them have their fun, Hecate,” she says mildly, and Hecate huffs.

“They’re going to hurt themselves.”

“No, they won’t,” she says, then grins. “We never did.”

Hecate folds her arms across her chest. “That’s because we were expert flyers.”

“At the ripe old age of thirteen?” Pippa teases. “We had just as much to learn as they do. They’ll be fine.”

“If you say so,” Hecate mutters, but keeps one eye on them at all times, occasionally course correcting their brooms just slightly, just enough to keep them from barrelling into one another.

“Softie,” Pippa whispers, and Hecate glares at her, indignant, in a way that makes Pippa laugh. The sound startles her, so bright and loud, but she finds herself softening immediately, a faint blush to her cheeks that she managed to elicit the sound.

After lunch, Pippa’s students proceed with their demonstrations. Archie wins the extra credit from Pentangle’s with his report on water-based plants and their uses in conductivity spells, Nawal gives a somewhat lackluster presentation on fairies, and Matthew makes a passionate argument for learning plant-based healing potions as soon as possible. Even Dylan’s isn’t a complete disaster, though they forget at least three of their notecards and butcher the Latin tremendously.

Still, Hecate is proud of them. It’s a strange feeling, one she doesn’t entirely understand—they aren’t her pupils, aren’t her charges, and yet, they’ve grown on her over the last week. She’d never admit it, least of all to them, but she does purse her lips when Dylan smirks at her after their presentations and asks,

“So how’d we do, Miss Hardbroom? Did we ‘represent one of the finest witching academies in Europe’ well enough?”

Hecate glowers at them, but notices that for some reason, all of Pippa’s students seem to be waiting for her answer, watching her avidly, and she admits, as grudging as she can make it sound, “You were all… adequate.”

Several students groan, but Dylan crows, laughing as they take off their baseball cap and pass it around. In it, the students toss a variety of things—a playing card, a fossil, a five pound note. Hecate frowns, and Dylan turns back to her with a smug grin.

“We took bets on what adjective you’d use to describe our work. I called it.”

Hecate’s jaw drops, and she thinks to scold them all; but Dylan looks so cheered, and the others almost nervous, as if expecting her to snap, that for once, she doesn’t. Instead, she arches an eyebrow pointedly, says, “Perhaps if you’d spent less time predicting my vocabulary and more time working on your presentations, they would have been ‘impressive.’”

Dylan grins. “Yeah, but then I’d have lost the bet,” they say, and Hecate rolls her eyes. She transfers away before they can see her smile, listens to their laughter from the other side of the camp, and feels something in her chest tug loose.

The feeling stays with her throughout the day, a strange good humor that the students take advantage of, occasionally asking her questions, or simply refraining from stopping their conversations when she’s in earshot.

Dinner goes fairly smoothly, and they celebrate their last night with a haul of desserts Pippa has conjured. The students pounce on them eagerly, and even Hecate discreetly takes a pastry for later. They sit around the campfire, indulging in far too much sugar, and Hecate knows they’re going to be impossible to get to bed later.

Strangely, she doesn’t mind.

Someone brings up ghost stories again, and Matthew cajoles, “C’mon, Miss Pentangle—you must know _something_.”

“Don’t look at me,” Pippa says, holding her hands up, laughing. “I told you—you want ghost stories, you’ll have to talk to Miss Hardbroom.”

Matthew looks at her uncertainly, and Hecate opens her mouth to protest again when Enid drops down onto a log next to Maud, a plate of donuts in her hands. “Will you tell us a story, Miss Hardbroom?”

“I—”

“Please, Miss Hardbroom?” Dylan says, batting their eyes in a way that makes Nawal laugh.

There’s another voice, quieter, a bit more timid, “Please, Miss Hardbroom?” and Pippa smirks as more of the students join in, looking at her eagerly.

She doesn’t quite understand why. Why they’d want to hear tales from her. Why they’d find them interesting. Thinks perhaps it’s just another thing they can whisper about behind her back. Another thing they can taunt her for.

But they look genuinely intrigued, and she supposes, as all the stories she knows are historical, it could be a teaching opportunity disguised as… fun.

She hesitates, still unsure, until Pippa holds out a hand, and she remembers that it’s Pippa asking, Pippa wanting, and that she’s never been able to deny Pippa much of anything.

Cannot, for all her protests, leave her there with her hand outstretched. Cannot reject the offering.

So purses her lips. “One story,” she says, and the students cheer; the sound startles her, makes her jump and look at Pippa wide eyed in question. But she’s still smiling, palm out, and Hecate dutifully sits by her side. She’s stiff and uncomfortable and doesn’t care for all the eyes on her, but she supposes it’s a lesson, no different from a potions class.

“In 1590, a lurid pamphlet circulated in London, presumably a translation from a lost German text about a man named Peter Stubbe. Most, however, knew him as the Werewolf of Bedburg. The pamphlet impressed upon its readers that Stubbe, from his youth, was—“

Pippa nudges her, and Hecate pauses, frowning.

“You have to do the other part,” Pippa says quietly. At her blank look, Pippa tilts her head. “You know.” She waves a hand toward the fire, and Hecate sighs.

“Magic is not to be used for entertainment purposes,” she says stiffly, and Pippa rolls her eyes.

“It’s a historical lesson, remember?” she teases, eyes sparkling, and Hecate huffs.

“I hardly think it’s necessary.”

Pippa’s expression softens, a nostalgic smile that makes Hecate’s stomach flutter. “It was always the best part.”

Hecate stares at her, her open expression, and for a moment there’s no one else around. It’s just them, on a night so familiar, side by side in the grass while Hecate told stories on dark nights, moving the clouds to shapes of her will.

She’s hasn’t done anything like it since Pippa, since Miss Broomhead’s strict interpretation of magical use, and part of her wants to keep it, just for them. Keep it locked tightly away, keep it safe, in case this all goes wrong. So she’ll have something to cling to, when she’s inevitably alone again.

But Pippa looks so hopeful, and even the students seem intrigued, whispering amongst themselves, and Hecate takes a deep breath, exhales sharply.

“Fine.”

Stiff spined and a bit nervous, she turns her attention to the fire. Curling her fingers, she channels her magic, and the flames crackle, spit and morph easily, seamlessly, into the face of a young man.

The students gasp, awed, and beside her, she can feel Pippa beaming. She resists the urge to roll her eyes.

Instead, she resumes her story—tells them of the man who “was greatly inclined to evil.” How rumor went he made a deal with the devil, requesting, she says, quoting from memory, “to work his malice on men, women, and children, in the shape of some beast.”

Twisting her fingers, she shows them a stereotypical western devil, with horns and a pitchfork and there’s an eruption of giggles around the circle; but for once, she knows it isn’t directed at her.

With each description, she paints a picture in the fire, feels the rapt attention of the students. She spies Mildred out of the corner of her eye, grinning, her arm wrapped around Maud, who looks faintly disgusted.

“He had ‘a mouth great and wide, with most sharp and cruel teeth, a huge body, and mighty paws,’” she recites, painting them a beast in the fire so hideous, a few of the students turn away, or shut their eyes.

Smirking to herself, she lowers her voice, makes them strain to listen, lets the fire crackle and pop, loud enough to make them jump. She shows them the belt he supposedly used to transform, shows them a wolf running through a forest, chasing a young boy, wipes the scene away just as the wolf pounces.

Beside her, she can feel Pippa’s warmth, her calming presence, her pride, and Hecate feels her face flush.

“Stubbe was eventually caught, and admitted to all his nefarious deeds. His execution shortly followed,” she says, keeping the more lurid details to herself.

“Was he really a werewolf?” Nawal asks.

Hecate purses her lips, lets her hands fall back into her lap. “Unlikely. True werewolves are relatively harmless, much like their wolf brethren. They attack only if threatened.”

“Why would someone pretend to be a werewolf?” Felicity asks, and Hecate tells them about the persecution of werewolves, the way it intertwined with witch hunts and trials.

“Peter Stubbe, unfortunately, drew far too much attention to real lycanthropes, and many were hunted and killed alongside our fellow witches.”

They seem to somber a bit at that, whispering quietly amongst themselves, and Hecate risks a peek at Pippa out of the corner of her eye. She’s staring at Hecate, a soft, sleepy smile on her face, and Hecate wishes she could see it in a different light, morning light; see it from her pillow, just after waking.

Her eyes dart away, back to the students. Enid has her hand stretched far into the air, and Hecate sighs. “Yes, Miss Nightshade?”

“Can you teach us how to do that fire thing?”

Hecate glares sideways at Pippa. “I told you it was a mistake,” she mutters, and Pippa laughs, stifling the sound behind her hand as Hecate turns back to the group.

“Elemental magic is not a game,” she says, “It can be highly dangerous, and requires _strict_ control.”

Enid grins. “So you’ll show us?”

Hecate glares, uncomfortable with Enid’s strange, newfound camaraderie with her, and says slowly, “We shall see. Perhaps, _if_ you behave yourselves for the remainder of the trip, when we return to Cackle’s I can provide you with a proper demonstration.”

Her students beam, suddenly a flurry of commotion and conversation, while several of Pippa’s boys turn to her with wide eyes.

“Can we have one too, Miss Pentangle?” Archie asks, followed by several others, cajoling and pleading.

Pippa laughs. “We’ll see what we can do,” she promises, then her face brightens and she looks at Hecate pleadingly.  “Oh, do the Lady of Raynham Hall.” She puts her hands under her chin and pouts. “Please?”

Hecate rolls her eyes. “You’ve heard it plenty.”

Pippa drops her hands and smiles faintly. “Not for a long time.”

She knows she should say no. Should stick to what she promised - one story - but Pippa is looking at her so softly, almost longingly, that she breaks almost instantly.

She tells them the story of Lady Dorothy Walpole, the wife of the violent Charles Townshend. The rumor of how he locked her in her rooms in Raynham Hall, where she remained until her death by smallpox in 1726.

“The first recorded sighting of Walpole’s supposed ghost was in 1835, wearing the brown dress she died in.” Hecate alters the flames into the image of a woman in a dress at the top of a stairwell.  “She became known as the Brown Lady, and was sighted again in 1891 by Captain Frederick Marryat, a friend of Charles Dickens’, and again in 1926.”

“What made her so scary?” Felicity asks, sitting as close to the fire as she can now, elbows on her knees.

“Men are easily frightened,” Hecate deadpans, and Pippa elbows her in the ribs. She sighs. “ _People_ ,” she emphasizes, sharing a look with Pippa, “are often frightened of what they cannot explain or do not understand. Either that, or the fact that she often appeared like this.”

Hecate waves her hand, and the image shifts to a close up of Walpole’s face, her eye-sockets empty, face glowing, and several students yelp and flinch backwards. Even Pippa gasps at the abrupt change, pressing her hand to her heart and glaring at Hecate.

With a smirk, Hecate waves the image away, and replaces it with one of the supposed photograph of Walpole.

“Many believe the photograph is proof of her ghost. It’s nonsense, of course.”

“What is it then?” Dylan asks.

“Residual magic. Dorothy Walpole was a witch.”

Maud frowns and raises her hand, and Hecate nods to her. “What do you mean, residual magic?”

“When we die, our magic lives on. It goes back into the earth, into the air.  But sometimes it stays close, and you get images like this one, where it bleeds through.”

“Haunted by magic,” Matthew says. “ _Cool._ ”

Hecate barely stifles a groan and turns to look at Pippa balefully. “May I be released now, Miss Pentangle?”

Pippa rolls her eyes, and several of the girls giggle. “I suppose you’ve done enough,” she says, teasing, but her voice is soft, her eyes warm, and she leans sideways and kisses Hecate’s cheek.

Hecate flushes, mortified, barely hears the whispered, “Thank you, Hiccup,” in her ear. She can feel all the eyes on them, and clenches her teeth, shoulders tensing. But when she looks out at the students, most aren’t paying attention, and the ones who are are smiling.

They look away when Hecate glares, but their lifted lips remain, and Hecate feels her pulse start to slow, to steady.

“Kids aren’t like they used to be,” Pippa says quietly. “They’re a lot more open. A lot more… accepting.” Pippa licks her lips and her eyes dart away, then back as she adds, “If that’s… something you’re concerned about.”

 _Accepting of what?_ she wants to ask, but Pippa has already turned her attention back to the students, informing them it’s time to get ready for bed. They all groan, and Hecate spies more than one child stuff their pockets with desserts. She has no illusions that they’ll stay up late into the night, but she lets Pippa usher them into the cabin.

Confident Pippa can handle them, she remains outside, clears up the area with a wave of her hand, rights a few chairs and checks the wards.

It’s peaceful, the quiet of the forest, the murmur of voices from inside the cabin, dulled to where she can’t hear what anyone’s saying, but she can hear the laughter. It makes her smile, just a little, and she stays outside far longer than she intends, sits on one of the logs and watches the last of the light fade away, the stars brightening by the minute.

She’s still there half an hour later when Pippa emerges, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

“They aren’t going to get any sleep,” she bemoans, settling next to Hecate.

“Dessert was your idea,” Hecate says blandly.

Pippa huffs. “You can’t have a celebration without sweets, Hecate.”

“I don’t remember that being in The Code.”

“Well it should be,” Pippa says, pouting slightly.

Hecate smirks. “You’re just cross Enid took the last donut.”

“It was the pink one,” Pippa sighs, looking dejected, and Hecate can’t help the fond smile that pulls at her lips. Still, she rolls her eyes, and with a small wave of her hand, retrieves the donut she’d set aside earlier—pink frosting, a ridiculous amount of sprinkles—and holds it out to Pippa.

Pippa blinks, sitting up straight from her slouch, and looks at Hecate, surprised. “You saved it for me?”

Hecate shrugs, resolutely ignoring the flush she feels in her cheeks. “I knew you’d wait too long,” she says, and Pippa grins, taking the treat with something akin to reverence before she presses a kiss to Hecate’s cheek.

“Thank you, Hiccup.”

Hecate shivers—at her touch, her low voice, the night air. Shifting slightly, Pippa opens the blanket and scoots closer to Hecate, tucking it over Hecate’s shoulder so they’re both beneath it.

Hecate stiffens, unused to the contact; but Pippa merely picks at her donut gleefully, reminiscing about the day around a mouthful, and after a moment, it doesn’t feel strange. It feels right, and welcome, and she slowly relaxes, lets her shoulders drop just a little.

She’s surprised, and yet she isn’t, that the conversation flows naturally. The subjects all light, easy things, but there’s no stopping and starting, no hesitation. They talk the way they always used to, flowing from one thing to the next, a bit about teaching, a bit about magic, a bit about the past.

“Do you remember,” she broaches, a bit cautiously, “when we used to sneak out to watch the meteor showers?”

Pippa rolls her eyes, but it’s fond and teasing. “You used to get mad at me for making up constellations.”

“Not mad,” Hecate says, frowning. “I wasn’t—I didn’t understand. Stars already have names. They have stories.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t write new ones,” Pippa says, nudging her shoulder before looking up and pointing across Hecate’s field of vision. “Take that cluster, there.”

“Bootes. The ox tamer,” Hecate says instantly, and Pippa smiles.

“Maybe. But what if it isn’t? What if it’s a kite, flown by two friends? See?” She takes Hecate’s hand and draws their fingers in the sky. “Or what if the Leos and Ursa Major and Coma Bernices make a heart? Right there, with Canes Venatici in the middle. Maybe… somewhere in all these stars, there’s a love story. One with a happy ending.”

She sounds wistful, lowering her hand to settle on Hecate’s thigh, and Hecate tries to breathe deeply, not to let the touch distract her. “Nothing ends, Pippa,” she reminds her, feels overly sentimental when she says, “Least of all love.”

“A happy beginning, then,” Pippa says. “A fresh start. The way things are supposed to be.”

Hecate huffs, but she’s smiling, and turns to look at Pippa. “And how are they supposed to be, exactly?”

Pippa doesn’t answer. For a long, still moment, Pippa merely stares at her, eyes wandering over her face in the dim light, and Hecate doesn’t understand. What she’s doing. What she’s thinking. And then Pippa reaches out, her hand trembling slightly, and tucks a strand of hair behind Hecate’s ear, her fingertips lingering on Hecate’s jaw.

Hecate shivers, inhales sharply and doesn’t dare move, or breathe, lest Pippa move away.  Instead, she cups Hecate’s cheek in her palm, thumb brushing idly over her cheekbone, and her touch is so soft that Hecate feels her eyes sting. It’s too much, and not enough. She wants to ask, wants to know why Pippa is looking at her like that, so open, so strangely; why she’s touching her with such reverence, why she’s touching her at all. But she can’t speak, doesn’t want to break the spell of whatever this is, keeps her hands folded over one another tightly in her lap to keep them still, to keep them from reaching for Pippa in any way.

“Like this,” Pippa whispers, and Hecate’s forgotten the question. Forgets everything, when Pippa closes her eyes and leans in and kisses her. It’s just a brush of her lips, but Hecate’s entire body floods with warmth even as her mind spins in confusion and her heart grounds to a halt and all she can do is sit there, stunned.

Pippa pulls back after a moment that is both forever and far too short. Her hand stays on Hecate’s cheek, but her eyes are bright, her lip caught between her teeth and her voice shakes just slightly, though it’s barely a whisper.

“Did I get it wrong?”

She wants to say _no_. Wants to touch her skin and press in close and tell her she’s right, but she feels lightheaded, can feel her jaw moving but there’s no sound. She _wants_ but she can’t quite break through - the ice, the cold, the wall she’s built around herself too thick and she feels like she’s scrabbling at it, desperately wants it gone.

She stares at Pippa and Pippa stares back, nervous; and then her face falls, her eyes dropping to her lap and Hecate wants to scream. Pippa’s fingers trail over her skin as she pulls her hand back, and Hecate isn’t sure she’s ever felt so bereft in her life.

“I’m sorry, Hecate, truly. I thought—” She shakes her head and forces the saddest smile. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. I’m—I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She raises her hand to transfer, and something in Hecate cracks wide open, some current or wind or roaring flood because her hand moves of its own accord, wrapping gently but firmly around Pippa’s wrist.

“No,” she manages, though her voice is thick and barely a whisper.

Pippa frowns. “No, what?”

Hecate swallows and tries to take a few even, deep breaths. Tries to find the right words, but she’s afraid. She’ll say the wrong thing, and Pippa will leave. She’ll push her away somehow, and lose this precious chance.

Staring down at their hands, she moves slowly, drifts down and intertwines their fingers, the way they used to when they were young, lying on the grass to stare up at the sky full of stars and wonder.

She looks up, meets Pippa’s eyes and tries to tell her, tries so hard and finally, she finds her voice, a tremulous, “No. You did not get it wrong. I—” Her throat closes, and she tries again, almost raspy, “Pippa, I—”

“Shh.” Pippa sits back down, presses a finger to her lips for a moment with her free hand before falling away. “It’s alright, darling.” She takes Hecate’s other hand and holds it just as tightly. “Take all the time you need,” she murmurs. “And I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

She wants to say that she’s ready now, that she wants this, wants Pippa, now and always has but her heart hasn’t stopped thudding and her head is spinning and she thinks Pippa’s grounding touch might be the only thing keeping her in one piece.  

She keeps expecting to wake up. Expects the shill of her alarm of the sunlight through the blinds. Expects to be snapped out of this daydream in some way. It’s too much, almost—what she’s wanted for so long suddenly at her feet and Hecate has to force herself to breathe deeply, slowly, measured breaths to steady her heart rate.

“What—” she tries, clears her throat, does her best to meet Pippa’s gaze. “What does that mean?”

Pippa blinks, partly in surprise, but she squeezes Hecate’s hand and offers a small, tentative smile. “It means…it means I wish—I hope, someday, we can be more than friends.”

Hecate stares at her, tries to let the words sink into her skin but there’s so much noise, and she doesn’t understand. Why Pippa would want this. What she’d ever get from it. She stares at Pippa, tries to read her expression, and several minutes pass before she manages a choked out,

“Why?”

Pippa’s expression softens and she tightens her grip on Hecate’s hands, squeezing. “Because I l— I’ve missed you.” She hesitates, but when Hecate doesn’t lean away, she rests her palm lightly on Hecate’s cheek. “And when I think about my life, what I want, it’s… you’re always in it. In whatever way you want, but I hope…” She bites her lip, the way she always used to. “Maybe you feel the same way about me this time.”

Hecate clings to Pippa’s hand, allows the warmth of her palm on her cheek to sink into her skin, and she tries a few times to voice her thoughts, haphazard as they are, but _this time_ rings in her ears and she wants to ask, wants so badly to know but she’s terrified of the answer. Terrified of what comes next.

“Pippa, I—”

“You don’t have to say anything right now,” Pippa says. “I know it’s a lot. Just—” She drops her palm from Hecate’s face and covers their hands. “Please don’t run?”

There’s fear there, her voice trembling slightly, eyes wide in the dim light and Hecate can only imagine what this has cost Pippa. How vulnerable she’s had to make herself and Hecate shudders at the thought, at the very idea of hurting Pippa now, the way she’s always done. It makes her stomach feel sick, her throat tighten, and it’s all she can do to shake her head.

“I won’t,” she manages, and Pippa’s face brightens, a relieved smile warring with a slight giddiness that makes Hecate’s lips twitch upward.

Hesitating, Hecate nods slowly, then carefully, timidly, lays her head on Pippa’s shoulder, still clinging to her hands. Pippa releases one of them to readjust the blanket, to wrap an arm around Hecate’s back, her palm ghosting up and down Hecate’s spine.

Hecate shudders and presses closer, as close as she can, and tries to find the right words, but none come. Pippa doesn’t seem to mind. Seems content to sit quietly, to hold her, to stare up at the stars.

Hecate’s mind is whirling, her thoughts disjointed, and she wants to second guess herself—can’t quite believe—but then Pippa will press a kiss to her hair, or smooth a hand down her back, or squeeze her hand, and somehow, it’s real.

Somehow, Pippa wants this.

Wants _her_.

Hecate’s eyes sting and she squeezes them shut, takes a shuddering breath.

Pippa nuzzles her cheek into Hecate’s hair, like she knows.

“Snails.”

Hecate blinks, not certain she heard correctly. “Snails?”

Pippa nods. “I don’t like snails. I know they’re harmless, but—”

With reluctance, Hecate sits up, sits back, and looks at Pippa, wide-eyed, and Pippa pauses.

“What?”

Hecate bites her lip, and for a moment, can only stare—at Pippa’s furrowed brow, her adorably confused expression—and thinks it’s possible she’s never loved her more than she does in this moment.

Here, now, under a blanket of stars and a cool breeze and the light from the cabin, casting soft shadows on Pippa’s face.

And Hecate laughs.

The sound bubbles up, feels foreign in her throat, and it’s soft and quiet, a small laugh but a laugh nonetheless and Pippa stares at her, bewildered for a moment until she smiles.

“What’s so funny?”

Hecate shakes her head, lips quirked, and doesn’t answer. She isn’t quite brave enough to kiss Pippa, though she desperately wants to. Instead, she rests her head on Pippa’s shoulder again, and takes her hand, holds her thumb over the pulse point in Pippa’s wrist.

“Tell me a story,” Hecate murmurs, “About stars.”

Pippa’s silent a moment, then tells her a story of a mischievous cat, one who bats the planets around like string and follows the light of dying stars to new worlds, on new adventures. She tells her of a flightless bird, a snowy storm, a river that never stops running.

Hecate listens, and breathes, and closes her eyes and tries to see the constellations, new and uncertain. A whole world laid out in front of her, one she couldn’t see before.

But Pippa did.

Saw everything.

“Sometimes there’s more in the space between stars,” she says, “Stories just… waiting to be lived. Together.”

Hecate hums low in her throat. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a hopeless romantic?”

Pippa laughs. “Hardly hopeless,” she says, squeezing Hecate’s arm pointedly.

“I suppose.” She sighs, stares up at the cloudless sky, and tries to summon her courage.  “Are you—”

She falters, and Pippa runs her hand up and down Hecate’s arm soothingly. “What?”

Hecate takes a shallow breath. “Are you certain this is what you want?”

 _Am I what you want,_ she thinks, doesn’t say, and she keeps her eyes on the ground as she says, “I would understand. If it’s—if _I_ am… too much. I don’t—I don’t know how to change. How to be anything other than…”

She trails off, and Pippa crooks a finger under her chin, tilts her face up, meets her gaze.

“I’m certain,” Pippa murmurs. “Have been for a very long time,” she admits, and Hecate’s heart skips, warmth flooding her at the simple words, the honesty in them. She isn’t sure she entirely believes her, simply doesn’t know how, but it’s enough, for the moment, to tilt her cheek into Pippa’s palm.

_\--_

They don’t sleep.

Spend the night under the stars, talking quietly, about everything and nothing, pressed close together, fingers tangled, and as exhausted as Hecate is by morning, she doesn’t regret it.

Even when the students are grouchy and slow, even when the wind makes their trip back to Cackle’s less than favorable.

Ada greets them warmly, with promises of lunch and hot cocoa and Hecate lets her usher all the students into the great hall.

“Did you have a good time?” Ada asks, a bit hesitant, and Hecate can feel Pippa’s eyes on her when she says,

“It was...rewarding, in its own way.”

Ada smiles, and Hecate flushes under Pippa’s bright grin.

By the time lunch is over and the weather has cleared somewhat, Hecate is almost sad to see her girls go. They nod at her and smile, especially Mildred, who thanks her for the trip.

Hecate nods, watches them mount their brooms and fly off for home.

Pippa’s students wave them off before gathering their own things, prepared for the trip back to Pentangle’s.

Hecate hovers at the outskirts while Pippa wrangles them into a semblance of order. She doesn’t know what to say, what to do, how to say goodbye to Pippa after this week. It feels anticlimactic, after everything, when Pippa busses a kiss to her cheek.

“I’ll call you when I’m back?”

Hecate nods. “I would like that.”

“Good,” Pippa says, and touches her arm, more meaning in her gaze, full of things she cannot say, not with so many eyes and ears around.

“Oh,” Pippa says, summoning a small white envelope. “Dylan wanted me to give you this. Said not to open it until they’re gone.”

Hecate frowns, but nods, and takes the note. She wants to say something, to prove to herself that it wasn’t a dream, but Pippa is already moving away, broom in hand.

She guides the students into the sky, circles a few times, and waves back at Hecate before they fly off, and she isn’t sure what to feel.

She’s exhausted, wrung out, but oddly centered. Still, she appreciates it when Ada asks if she’d like to take tea later, giving her time to gather her thoughts, to unpack and settle back into her room.

She’s missed it—the warm colors, the dark cool stone walls, her own bed. It seems larger than she remembers, and she wonders how she’ll sleep now, alone. Without Pippa’s quiet snoring, her warmth.

She pushes the thought away. She’ll adjust, she always does.

The quiet is peaceful for a while—no laughing children, no skirmishes, no questions to answer or instructions to relay. She unpacks her bag by hand, takes her time replacing her ingredients—the mangled lotus root makes her shudder—returning everything to its rightful place.

When she’s done, she summons the letter Pippa gave her, sits on the edge of the bed and opens the envelope, pulling out a plain white page with a note in a scratchy hand,

_Thanks for everything, Miss H._

__\- Dylan_ _

_PS: I thought you’d be scarier._

Hecate snorts, but her smile softens when she runs her fingers over the pressed bluebell, tucked inside the letter.

Rising, she slips the flower into her potions book, the one she reads the most, as a reminder. She’ll never be sweet, never be terribly patient, but she thinks, staring at the pressing, that maybe she does know how to be kind.

\--

She takes tea with Ada at five, makes her excuses within two hours in order to be back in her room for Pippa’s call.

The weather’s grown darker, storm clouds rolling in, and Hecate does her best not to worry. Pippa is a perfectly competent flyer, and she should be back at Pentangle’s by now regardless.

Still, the hour ticks on, and Pippa doesn’t call.

She doesn’t call, and doesn't call, and doesn’t call, and by 8pm Hecate is pacing her rooms, looking fleeting at the mirror on her wall.

She tries not to let her fears get the better of her. Tries not to imagine all the ways in which it’s gone wrong already. Tries not to think that perhaps Pippa doesn’t want to call, doesn’t want to speak to her. That perhaps Pippa regrets the night before, that she’s changed her mind. A darker part of her whispers that perhaps it was a ruse, a joke—that perhaps Pippa never meant it seriously, or that somehow, Hecate misunderstood.

She tries to remind herself of Pippa’s words, her soothing, _For a very long time._

She wonders if something happened.

If there’s a reason Pippa _can’t_ call.

If she never made it back.

If something went wrong.

The weather, or the flight, or something at Pentangle’s—

Hecate grits her teeth and glares out the window at the slowly building storm, resolves herself to calling Pippa if she doesn’t hear from her within the hour; and yet an hour passes, and Hecate stares at the mirror and can’t quite bring herself to call.

She thinks of Pippa’s bewildered face, a surprised, pitying, _Oh, you really thought—?_

But Pippa wouldn’t do that. Wouldn’t ever, and she knows this but she can’t call, can’t speak.

She feels foolish, and at the same time horribly concerned—what if she’s relapsed from the poison? What if she’s trapped somewhere, somehow? What if she’s sick, or worse.

Curling her fingers into fists, she stands in front of the mirror, croaks out Pippa’s name. The mirror calls, and calls, and calls, and no one answers. She tries again, and it rings twice before there’s a knock on her door.

Hecate grits her teeth. She doesn’t want to deal with anything else at the moment, but she knows it’s Ada and Ada doesn’t deserve her irritation; so she takes a deep breath before pulling open the door, prepared to politely ask Ada if they can talk another time.

Instead, Pippa stands in her doorway, soaked to the skin, hat wilted on her head and her hair plastered to her neck, and Hecate gasps.  

“Pippa!”

“I forgot something,” she says in a rush, breathless, her broom clutched in her hand.

“What did you—”

“I forgot to tell you that I love you.”

Hecate blinks, stares, doesn’t understand her words even though she keeps talking, barreling over herself:

“I forgot to tell you that I know things aren’t perfect right now, that you’re—that you’ve been through so much. I forgot to tell you that it’s okay if you’re scared, because I am, too. I know you aren’t always as confident as you appear, and I forgot to tell you that I meant it, when I said I’d wait. If this isn’t what you—if this isn’t the right time—I’ll wait.”

Pippa inhales, breathes out:

“But mostly, I forgot to tell you that I love you—exactly as you are. And no matter what happens next, I’ll never ask you to be somebody else.”

Hecate stares. Barely registers the words, the myriad of emotions whirling inside her, the torrent of sudden gratitude and disbelief and love, so much love she feels her hands shake from it. She wants to say something, to tell Pippa how much the words mean to her, how terribly she’s needed to hear exactly that, for so long now—how somehow, Pippa put into sweet, fumbling words her biggest fears, and eased them in the same breath. But she can’t speak, her throat tight and eyes stinging so she kisses her instead. Cups Pippa’s cheeks between her palms and kisses her desperately, open-mouthed and a bit wild.

Pippa gasps, then sinks into her, vanishes her broom and wraps her arms around Hecate’s neck and clutches her. Hecate’s hands roam, over her neck, her shoulders, to the small of her back and she pulls Pippa closer, mindless of her wet clothes, mindless of anything other than the warmth of her mouth and her body so close.

Pippa whimpers, fingers curling around the back of Hecate’s neck, her other hand flat on the small of Hecate’s back, pressing her closer, closer.

It isn’t until they pull back, both breathless, that Hecate realizes the door is wide open. That Pippa is still dripping wet in the threshold, shivering slightly. She tries to step away, but Pippa holds her in place, lips brushing hers.

“Don’t stop?”

It’s a breathless request, nervous, and Hecate’s heart trips at the sound, and she kisses Pippa quickly. “I won’t,” she murmurs. “But the door is open, and you’ll catch a cold if you stay in those clothes.”

Pippa blinks up at her, eyes wide and lips slightly swollen. She seems to be waiting for something, wanting but unsure, and Hecate tries to imagine what she would want, what she’d need.

“That is—if you want to stay?”

“You’re not sick of me yet?”

Hecate’s chest knots at the insecurity there, so plain, so like her own it feels like a mirror, like she’s said the words herself. Shaking her head, she slides her hand down Pippa’s side and curls her fingers over her hip, drawing her further into the room.

“Stay,” she reiterates, and Pippa nods, and kisses her, and Hecate closes the door with her magic, locks it, focuses on the press of Pippa’s chest to hers and Pippa’s nails, softly scratching at the nape of her neck.

A drop of water from Pippa’s hair drips down her face, interrupts their kiss, and Pippa laughs softly, leans back enough to wipe at her eyes. “Sorry. There was a storm, I—”

“May I—?” Hecate gestures vaguely, and Pippa nods, allows Hecate to perform a drying spell, softer than she usually does, gentle waves of magic, and Pippa smiles warmly.

“Thank you.”

Hecate nods. “I—when you didn’t call, I was—concerned.”

Pippa curls her fingers over Hecate’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I just—wanted to see you. I didn’t think about the weather or how long it would take.”

Hecate fumbles for what to say, distracted by Pippa’s proximity, her hands, still touching her. “You’ve always been impetuous,” she says mildly, and Pippa shrugs.

“It works in my favor.”

Hecate nods, feels Pippa’s heat through their clothes, Pippa’s hands on her back and doesn’t know what to do, what to say.

“You must be tired.”

It’s a question, in part, and Pippa nods slowly, reluctantly. “I am,” she admits, “But I—I don’t want to sleep.”

She meets Hecate’s gaze, and Hecate feels her pulse quicken, her chest tighten, feels overwhelmed under the heady stare, uncertain. She wants—wants so badly, Pippa’s touch and Pippa’s kisses and everything Pippa wants to give but it’s too much, too fast, and she only manages a hoarse, “I—” before her voice gives out.

Pippa notices the way her posture’s changed, her spine rigid, and quickly shakes her head, squeezing Hecate’s arm. “I didn’t mean anything—nothing has to happen,” she says urgently. “I just meant I’d...if it’s alright with you, I—I’d like to be close to you. To kiss you or—or we can talk,” she says, “or just sit, or—if you’d rather not, I can go, I—”

“Pippa.”

Pippa huffs, ducking her head. “I’m sorry. I ramble when I’m nervous—I know it’s not terribly becoming.”

Hecate frowns, can’t imagine anyone finding her anything less than adorable, sweet and kind; but it’s clear from the flush on Pippa’s cheeks, the way she won’t quite meet her gaze, that she’s been told off for it before, told to keep quiet.

Hecate does her best to set aside her anger, the sharp words she’d like to share with such a person, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind Pippa’s ear.  

“We can do any of those things,” Hecate murmurs, and Pippa looks up at her, a crooked smile on her face.

“Yeah?”

Hecate smiles, leans in and kisses her again, lets her fingers trail over Pippa’s cheek, over her jaw to settle on the side of her neck. Pippa moans softly, and Hecate feels a heat curl in her belly, low and sweet.

Pippa presses closer, slides her hands up Hecate’s back to her neck, then makes a frustrated sound in the back of her throat when she reaches Hecate’s neck.

Hecate laughs quietly, pulling back to see Pippa’s pout. “What?”

“Your hair,” Pippa says, and Hecate can’t help but roll her eyes.

“You always were strangely obsessed,” she says, but lifts a hand and lets her magic unwind the strands, lets it fall down over her shoulders, vanishes the pins back to their drawer in her vanity.

Pippa beams, and immediately buries her fingers in the strands near her ear, pulling her back down into another kiss. Hecate whimpers slightly at the feel of Pippa’s nails, so gentle against her scalp, her fingers winding through her hair, keeping it back from her face.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers when she pulls away, running her fingers through the waves. “You’re beautiful.”

Hecate flushes. She’s never thought of herself as particularly attractive. She’s rarely been insecure about her features, but she knows her nose is too sharp and her shoulders too bony and her hips too narrow. Knows she isn’t anyone’s idea of a dream; but the way Pippa is looking at her, with so much desire and affection, makes her skin tingle and her eyes water, makes her feel wanted, feel beautiful, for the first time she can remember.

But Pippa—Pippa she finds beautiful. Everything about her—her kindness, her bright energy, her light. Her smile, her laugh, the wrinkles around her eyes now that she’s older, the sun-weathered skin on her arms.

Clearing her throat, she shakes her head, pursing her lips to keep her emotions at bay. “I believe that’s my line,” she says, resigned when her voice wavers just slightly, but pleased when Pippa flushes, even as she shakes her head.

“You _are_ ,” she insists. “I’ve always thought so.”

Hecate inhales sharply at the admission, the _always and forever_ behind her words, behind her eyes. The history lingering there, the missed opportunities and what ifs, so bright she can hardly bear it.  

“Pippa,” she tries, gives up, kisses her instead, and tries to pour as much of herself into it, as much as she knows how to give. Pippa kisses her back, runs her fingers through Hecate’s hair and over her spine and Hecate isn’t certain how long they stay that way, tangled in each other, learning each other, and it’s a weightless feeling, finally being able to hold her, to touch her and know that she isn’t alone. That Pippa feels the same, wants the same.

She knows Pippa was right—knows, especially after the last week, that she isn’t entirely okay. Knows that she needs time, that she’ll need some space to sort through the last year or more. But she also knows that Pippa will be there for her—knows that when she’s ready to talk, Pippa will listen.

Will hear her.

And she wants to do the same. To be the same, to be a comfort to her, a balm for any wounds. Wants her to know how treasured she is, how precious. How important.

She knows she isn’t good with words. Knows she’ll have to find other ways of showing Pippa what she means to her, until she learns how to speak what she’s feeling.

Knows the road ahead is long and won’t be without its stops and starts but for the moment, with Pippa so close and so warm, with her lips over Hecate’s and Pippa’s hand sliding up to cradle Hecate’s jaw, Hecate’s content. To simply be.

To love her in the best way she knows how.

She wants to tell her all of it. Wants to reassure her, the way Pippa has reassured Hecate, but when she pulls back and tries to catch her breath, Pippa’s eyes are so bright, her smile so wide, Hecate loses focus of everything except how stunning she is, face flushed and lips red and hair in slight disarray.

But she knows she owes Pippa—owes her the truth, after all this time, and it terrifies her. She’s kept her secret so long, buried so deep, to give it voice feels like betraying something old and otherworldly.

Still, she knows, Pippa deserves it.

_I hope someday you’ll tell me why._

It could ruin everything, ruin this new and fragile thing between them, but she doesn’t want to start on a lie. Doesn’t want to start with her heart under lock and key.

Pippa asks for so little, and Hecate needs so much, doesn’t know what she has to give in return. But this, this she can do. Slowly, painfully, but she can do it, though she can’t quite meet Pippa’s gaze when she admits, so quiet,

“I was in love with you.”

Pippa stills, her eyes going wide, and Hecate swallows the knot in her throat.

“That’s why I—”

“Why you left,” Pippa finishes, and Hecate nods. Pippa stares at her, expression unreadable, and Hecate’s heart thuds so loudly she’s almost certain Pippa can hear it. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks finally, and Hecate thinks of all the answers, all her reasons—the other girls, taunting, her father, uncompromising, her own insecurities and fears but it’s not quite right, not entirely true.

Licking her lips, she says slowly, carefully, “I suppose…I’d have rather you hate me for leaving you than leave me for loving you.”

Pippa sniffles, her eyes glassy. “I wouldn’t have. I never would have—” She stops, shakes her head, and falls silent, whatever she planned to say lost to a shuddering breath.

“I know that now. I just… I need you to understand. If we’re going to—if this is— it isn’t new, for me. I’ve… always loved you.”

Pippa nods, says nothing, and the room presses in, presses too close.

“Are you angry?”

Pippa shakes her head. “No,” she murmurs. “I’m—part of me wishes—” She stalls, and Hecate somehow summons the courage to squeeze her hand in reassurance. “I wish I’d known. I wish you’d have told me. I wonder—what would have happened, if we’d—”

Hecate looks away, chest tight with shame, but Pippa won’t let her. Cups her cheek in her palm and meets her gaze, her smile tremulous.

“But we’re here now, aren’t we?”

It’s a question, a plea, as tentative and insecure as Hecate feels, Pippa’s eyes wide and full of hope.

“We’re here,” Hecate murmurs, like a promise.

They move closer for a kiss when Pippa yawns suddenly, loudly, and Hecate can’t help the breathless laugh that escapes her throat.

Pippa ducks her head, embarrassed. “Sorry. Apparently I’m more tired than I thought.”

Hecate nods, a fond smile on her face, a bit apprehensive when she asks, “Would you—would you like to sleep? Here?”

 _With me_ , goes unsaid, but Pippa nods. “Do you—can I borrow some clothes?”

Hecate summons an extra set of pyjamas, black trousers and a t-shirt, and Pippa laughs softly and takes them before pressing a kiss to Hecate’s cheek. She disappears into the ensuite for a few minutes, and Hecate uses the time to change into her own night clothes, to comb through her hair.

Pippa comes back with her hair down, makeup gone, and Hecate can’t help the surge of possessiveness that goes through her at the sight of Pippa in her clothes, in her color, in her bedroom, barefoot and sleepy-eyed.

She stands by the bed, feels unreasonably nervous, fingers tapping uselessly against her thighs as Pippa approaches, looking equally apprehensive.

“Are you certain—”

“Do you want me to—”

They both flush, and Hecate takes a deep breath, tries to be brave, and holds out a hand that only slightly trembles.

Pippa takes it immediately, grips her tightly for a moment before they both slip under the covers, and Hecate snaps her fingers to turn out the lights.

She lays there in the dark for a moment tries to think of what to say or do, keenly aware of Pippa’s presence next to her, her similar posture, both of them staring at the ceiling in silence.

Swallowing tightly, Hecate tries to relax her shoulders. “I… haven’t been sleeping well,” she says, though Pippa already knows. “I might—”

Pippa looks over at her in the dim light. “It’s okay,” she murmurs, rolling onto her side, one hand under her head, the other in the space between them.  

Hecate feels her gaze, soft and open, and forces herself to exhale slowly before she turns, mimics Pippa’s posture. Her features are partially hidden in the darkness, but her eyes are bright, her smile warm, and Hecate hesitates, fumbles a bit as she reaches for Pippa’s hand.

Pippa takes it instantly, curls her fingers around Hecate’s. Shifting closer, her eyes scan Hecate’s face before she leans forward, kissing her again, long and slow. Hecate closes her eyes, sinks into the feel of Pippa so close, of her breath soft on Hecate’s cheeks when she pulls back, presses their foreheads together.

“Hiccup,” she mumbles, and Hecate smiles.  

“Sleep well, Pipsqueak,” Hecate murmurs, and then, because she feels she must, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”  

Nodding, Pippa moves closer still, rests her head on Hecate’s shoulder, and Hecate falls asleep to the soft sound of Pippa’s breathing, her thumb brushing gently over her hand.

\--

She dreams of ice and her mother’s voice and a red red rose and wakes on a whimper, curling into herself, eyes squeezed shut.

She’s so tired, so tired of all of it—the noise in her head, the memories, surfacing in her sleep. The cold that pricks along her skin that no magic seems to vanquish. Her eyes sting and she keeps them closed, keeps the tears behind her eyelids, and shudders in the dark.

She’s turned sometime in the night, away, her back to Pippa, and she resists the urge to draw her knees up to her chest like a child, to rock herself back to sleep.

Instead, she feels the bed shift, hears Pippa’s mumbled, “Hecate?”

Hecate clenches her jaw, manages a careful, “Go back to sleep, Pippa.”

There’s a pause, silence, and then Pippa’s hand so soft on her shoulder. “What can I do?”

 _Nothing_ , she thinks, but doesn’t know anymore if that’s true. Her skin aches and her bones feel cold and she just wants to be warm—wants to feel like she isn’t spiraling, isn’t slipping away.

She thinks of Pippa’s hands on her shoulders, Pippa’s arm around her back, and more than anything she wants, but she doesn’t know how to ask. Doesn’t know the words, doesn’t know what would happen if she let herself ask for something so simple, so small.

Her body seems to crave it, Pippa’s touch, that sweet, grounding feeling from before, and she bites her lip hard, shakes her head. She doesn’t answer, and after a few moments, Pippa withdraws her hand, and Hecate feels cold all over again, feels alone, and barely stifles the sob that crawls up her throat.

And then there’s a hand at her back, sliding up over her shoulder, down her arm, and Pippa shifts closer, presses her body to Hecate’s and tightens her hold, her breath soft against Hecate’s ear.

“Is this alright?”

Hecate inhales sharply, Pippa’s chest pressing against her back, and she can smell her shampoo, something light and floral; feels Pippa grip her hand and nuzzle her face into Hecate’s hair. Feels her press a kiss to Hecate’s jaw before she settles.

It’s been so long since she’s been this close to another person like this, and she can’t quite stop a few tears from slipping down her cheeks at how right it feels, how precious. How safe, wrapped in Pippa’s arms—like nothing can hurt her here. Like nothing else matters save the rise and fall of Pippa’s chest, her even breathing against Hecate’s neck, their ankles tangled together.

She can’t find the words, but she clings back to Pippa just as tightly, holds their hands against her chest and lets the warmth seep into her skin, her bones.

For the rest of the night, she sleeps without dreams.  



End file.
